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Edition: 10
Language: English
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK, THE OLD SANTA FE TRAIL ***
As we look into the open fire for our fancies, so we are apt to
study the dim past for the wonderful and sublime, forgetful of the
fact that the present is a constant romance, and that the happenings
of to-day which we count of little importance are sure to startle
somebody in the future, and engage the pen of the historian,
philosopher, and poet.
When the famous highway was established across the great plains
as a line of communication to the shores of the blue Pacific,
the only method of travel was by the slow freight caravan drawn by
patient oxen, or the lumbering stage coach with its complement of
four or six mules. There was ever to be feared an attack by those
devils of the desert, the Cheyennes, Comanches, and Kiowas.
Along its whole route the remains of men, animals, and the wrecks of
camps and wagons, told a story of suffering, robbery, and outrage
more impressive than any language. Now the tourist or business man
makes the journey in palace cars, and there is nothing to remind him
of the danger or desolation of Border days; on every hand are the
evidences of a powerful and advanced civilization.
It is fortunate that one is left to tell some of its story who was
a living actor and had personal knowledge of many of the thrilling
scenes that were enacted along the line of the great route.
He was familiar with all the famous men, both white and savage,
whose lives have made the story of the Trail, his own sojourn on
the plains and in the Rocky Mountains extending over a period of
nearly forty years.
The Old Trail has more than common interest for me, and I gladly
record here my indorsement of the faithful record, compiled by a
brave soldier, old comrade, and friend.
CONTENTS.
INTRODUCTION.
The First Europeans who traversed the Great Highway--Alvar Nunez
Cabeca de Vaca--Hernando de Soto, and Francisco Vasquez de Coronado--
Spanish Expedition from Santa Fe eastwardly--Escape of the Sole Survivors.
CHAPTER I.
UNDER THE SPANIARDS.
Quaint Descriptions of Old Santa Fe--The Famous Adobe Palace--
Santa Fe the Oldest Town in the United States--First Settlement--
Onate's Conquest--Revolt of the Pueblo Indians--Under Pueblo Rule
--Cruelties of the Victors--The Santa Fe of To-day--Arrival of
a Caravan--The Railroad reaches the Town--Amusements--A Fandango.
CHAPTER II.
LA LANDE AND PURSLEY.
The Beginning of the Santa Fe Trade--La Lande and Pursley,
the First Americans to cross the Plains--Pursley's Patriotism--
Captain Ezekiel Williams--A Hungry Bear--A Midnight Alarm.
CHAPTER III.
EARLY TRADERS.
Captain Becknell's Expedition--Sufferings from Thirst--Auguste
Chouteau--Imprisonment of McKnight and Chambers--The Caches--
Stampeding Mules--First Military Escort across the Plains--
Captain Zebulon Pike--Sublette and Smith--Murder of McNess--
Indians not the Aggressors.
CHAPTER IV.
TRAINS AND PACKERS.
The Atajo or Pack-train of Mules--Mexican Nomenclature of
Paraphernalia--Manner of Packing--The "Bell-mare"--Toughness of
Mules among Precipices--The Caravan of Wagons--Largest Wagon-train
ever on the Plains--Stampedes--Duties of Packers en route--Order of
Travelling with Pack-train--Chris. Gilson, the Famous Packer.
CHAPTER V.
FIGHT WITH COMANCHES.
Narrative of Bryant's Party of Santa Fe Traders--The First Wagon
Expedition across the Plains--A Thrilling Story of Hardship and
Physical Suffering--Terrible Fight with the Comanches--Abandonment
of the Wagons--On Foot over the Trail--Burial of their Specie
on an Island in the Arkansas--Narrative of William Y. Hitt,
one of the Party--His Encounter with a Comanche--The First Escort
of United States Troops to the Annual Caravan of Santa Fe Traders,
in 1829--Major Bennett Riley's Official Report to the War Department
--Journal of Captain Cooke.
CHAPTER VI.
A ROMANTIC TRAGEDY.
The Expedition of Texans to the Old Santa Fe Trail for the Purpose
of robbing Mexican Traders--Innocent Citizens of the United States
suspected, arrested, and carried to the Capital of New Mexico--
Colonel Snively's Force--Warfield's Sacking of the Village of Mora
--Attack upon a Mexican Caravan--Kit Carson in the Fight--
A Crime of over Sixty Years Ago--A Romance of the Tragedy.
CHAPTER VII.
MEXICO DECLARES WAR.
Mexico declares War against the United States--Congress authorizes
the President to call for Fifty Thousand Volunteers--Organization of
the Army of the West--Phenomenon seen by Santa Fe Traders in the Sky
--First Death on the March of the Army across the Plains--Men in
a Starving Condition--Another Death--Burial near Pawnee Rock--
Trouble at Pawnee Fork--Major Howard's Report.
CHAPTER VIII.
THE VALLEY OF TAOS.
The Valley of Taos--First White Settler--Rebellion of the Mexicans
--A Woman discovers and informs Colonel Price of the Conspiracy--
Assassination of Governor Bent--Horrible Butcheries by the Pueblos
and Mexicans--Turley's Ranch--Murder of Harwood and Markhead--
Anecdote of Sir William Drummond Stewart--Fight at the Mills--
Battle of the Pueblo of Taos--Trial of the Insurrectionists--
Baptiste, the Juror--Execution of the Rebels.
CHAPTER IX.
FIRST OVERLAND MAIL.
Independence--Opening of Navigation on the Mississippi--Effect of
Water Transportation upon the Trade--Establishment of Trading-forts--
Market for Cattle and Mules--Wages paid Teamsters on the Trail--
An Enterprising Coloured Man--Increase of the Trade at the Close of
the Mexican War--Heavy Emigration to California--First Overland Mail
--How the Guards were armed--Passenger Coaches to Santa Fe--
Stage-coaching Days.
CHAPTER X.
CHARLES BENT.
The Tragedy in the Canyon of the Canadian--Dragoons follow the Trail
of the Savages--Kit Carson, Dick Wooton, and Tom Tobin the Scouts
of the Expedition--More than a Hundred of the Savages killed--
Murder of Mrs. White--White Wolf--Lieutenant Bell's Singular Duel
with the Noted Savage--Old Wolf--Satank--Murder of Peacock--
Satanta made Chief--Kicking Bird--His Tragic Death--Charles Bent,
the Half-breed Renegade--His Terrible Acts--His Death.
CHAPTER XI.
LA GLORIETA.
Neglect of New Mexico by the United States Government--Intended
Conquest of the Province--Conspiracy of Southern Leaders--
Surrender by General Twiggs to the Confederate Government of the
Military Posts and Munitions of War under his Command--Only One
Soldier out of Two Thousand deserts to the Enemy--Organization
of Volunteers for the Defence of Colorado and New Mexico--
Battle of La Glorieta--Rout of the Rebels.
CHAPTER XII.
THE BUFFALO.
The Ancient Range of the Buffalo--Number slaughtered in Thirteen Years
for their Robes alone--Buffalo Bones--Trains stopped by Vast Herds--
Custom of Old Hunters when caught in a Blizzard--Anecdotes of
Buffalo Hunting--Kit Carson's Dilemma--Experience of Two of Fremont's
Hunters--Wounded Buffalo Bull--O'Neil's Laughable Experience--
Organization of a Herd of Buffalo--Stampedes--Thrilling Escapes.
CHAPTER XIII.
INDIAN CUSTOMS AND LEGENDS.
Big Timbers--Winter Camp of the Cheyennes, Kiowas, and Arapahoes--
Savage Amusements--A Cheyenne Lodge--Indian Etiquette--Treatment
of Children--The Pipe of the North American Savage--Dog Feast--
Marriage Ceremony.
CHAPTER XIV.
TRAPPERS.
The Old Pueblo Fort--A Celebrated Rendezvous--Its Inhabitants--
"Fontaine qui Bouille"--The Legend of its Origin--The Trappers
of the Old Santa Fe Trail and the Rocky Mountains--Beaver Trapping--
Habits of the Beaver--Improvidence of the Old Trappers--Trading with
"Poor Lo"--The Strange Experience of a Veteran Trapper on the
Santa Fe Trail--Romantic Marriage of Baptiste Brown.
CHAPTER XV.
UNCLE JOHN SMITH.
Uncle John Smith--A Famous Trapper, Guide, and Interpreter--
His Marriage with a Cheyenne Squaw--An Autocrat among the People
of the Plains and Mountains--The Mexicans held him in Great Dread--
His Wonderful Resemblance to President Andrew Johnson--Interpreter
and Guide on General Sheridan's Winter Expedition against the
Allied Plains Tribes--His Stories around the Camp-fire.
CHAPTER XVI.
KIT CARSON.
Famous Men of the Old Santa Fe Trail--Kit Carson--Jim Bridger--
James P. Beckwourth--Uncle Dick Wooton--Jim Baker--Lucien B.
Maxwell--Old Bill Williams--Tom Tobin--James Hobbs.
CHAPTER XVII.
UNCLE DICK WOOTON.
Uncle Dick Wooton--Lucien B. Maxwell--Old Bill Williams--Tom Tobin--
James Hobbs--William F. Cody (Buffalo Bill).
CHAPTER XVIII.
MAXWELL'S RANCH.
Maxwell's Ranch on the Old Santa Fe Trail--A Picturesque Region--
Maxwell a Trapper and Hunter with the American Fur Company--
Lifelong Comrade of Kit Carson--Sources of Maxwell's Wealth--
Fond of Horse-racing--A Disastrous Fourth-of-July Celebration
--Anecdote of Kit Carson--Discovery of Gold on the Ranch--
The Big Ditch--Issuing Beef to the Ute Indians--Camping out with
Maxwell and Carson--A Story of the Old Santa Fe Trail.
CHAPTER XIX.
BENT'S FORTS.
The Bents' Several Forts--Famous Trading-posts--Rendezvous of the
Rocky Mountain Trappers--Castle William and Incidents connected
with the Noted Place--Bartering with the Indians--Annual Feast
of Arapahoes and Cheyennes--Old Wolf's First Visit to Bent's Fort--
The Surprise of the Savages--Stories told by Celebrated Frontiersmen
around the Camp-fire.
CHAPTER XX.
PAWNEE ROCK.
Pawnee Rock--A Debatable Region of the Indian Tribes--The most
Dangerous Point on the Central Plains in the Days of the Early
Santa Fe Trade--Received its Name in a Baptism of Blood--
Battle-ground of the Pawnees and Cheyennes--Old Graves on the
Summit of the Rock--Kit Carson's First Fight at the Rock with
the Pawnees--Kills his Mule by Mistake--Colonel St. Vrain's
Brilliant Charge--Defeat of the Savages--The Trappers' Terrible
Battle with the Pawnees--The Massacre at Cow Creek.
CHAPTER XXI.
FOOLING STAGE ROBBERS.
Wagon Mound--John L. Hatcher's Thrilling Adventure with Old Wolf,
the War-chief of the Comanches--Incidents on the Trail--A Boy
Bugler's Happy Escape from the Savages at Fort Union--A Drunken
Stage-driver--How an Officer of the Quartermaster's Department
at Washington succeeded in starting the Military Freight Caravans
a Month Earlier than the Usual Time--How John Chisholm fooled
the Stage-robbers--The Story of Half a Plug of Tobacco.
CHAPTER XXII.
A DESPERATE RIDE.
Solitary Graves along the Line of the Old Santa Fe Trail--The Walnut
Crossing--Fort Zarah--The Graves on Hon. D. Heizer's Ranch on
the Walnut--Troops stationed at the Crossing of the Walnut--
A Terrible Five Miles--The Cavalry Recruit's Last Ride.
CHAPTER XXIII.
HANCOCK'S EXPEDITION.
General Hancock's Expedition against the Plains Indians--Terrible
Snow-storm at Fort Larned--Meeting with the Chiefs of the
Dog-Soldiers--Bull Bear's Diplomacy--Meeting of the United States
Troops and the Savages in Line of Battle--Custer's Night Experience--
The Surgeon and Dog Stew--Destruction of the Village by Fire--
General Sully's Fight with the Kiowas, Comanches, and Arapahoes--
Finding the Skeletons of the Unfortunate Men--The Savages' Report
of the Affair.
CHAPTER XXIV.
INVASION OF THE RAILROAD.
Scenery on the Line of the Old Santa Fe Trail--The Great Plains--
The Arkansas Valley--Over the Rocky Mountains into New Mexico--
The Raton Range--The Spanish Peaks--Simpson's Rest--Fisher's Peak
--Raton Peak--Snowy Range--Pike's Peak--Raton Creek--The Invasion
of the Railroad--The Old Santa Fe Trail a Thing of the Past.
FOOTNOTES.
PUBLICATION INFORMATION.
INTRODUCTION.
For more than three centuries, a period extending from 1541 to 1851,
historians believed, and so announced to the literary world,
that Francisco Vasquez de Coronado, the celebrated Spanish explorer,
in his search for the Seven Cities of Cibola and the Kingdom of Quivira,
was the first European to travel over the intra-continent region
of North America. In the last year above referred to, however,
Buckingham Smith, of Florida, an eminent Spanish scholar, and secretary
of the American Legation at Madrid, discovered among the archives
of State the _Narrative of Alvar Nunez Cabeca de Vaca_, where for
nearly three hundred years it had lain, musty and begrimed with the
dust of ages, an unread and forgotten story of suffering that has no
parallel in fiction. The distinguished antiquarian unearthed the
valuable manuscript from its grave of oblivion, translated it into
English, and gave it to the world of letters; conferring honour upon
whom honour was due, and tearing the laurels from such grand voyageurs
and discoverers as De Soto, La Salle, and Coronado, upon whose heads
history had erroneously placed them, through no fault, or arrogance,
however, of their own.
Cabeca, beyond any question, travelled the Old Santa Fe Trail for
many miles, crossed it where it intersects the Arkansas River,
a little east of Fort William or Bent's Fort, and went thence on
into New Mexico, following the famous highway as far, at least,
as Las Vegas. Cabeca's march antedated that of Coronado by five years.
To this intrepid Spanish voyageur we are indebted for the first
description of the American bison, or buffalo as the animal is
erroneously called. While not so quaint in its language as that
of Coronado's historian, a lustrum later, the statement cannot be
perverted into any other reference than to the great shaggy monsters
of the plains:--
On the 6th of April, 1538, De Soto sailed from Spain with an armament
of ten vessels and a splendidly equipped army of nine hundred chosen men,
amidst the roar of cannons and the inspiring strains of martial music.
Moscoso was searching for Coronado, and he was one of the most humane
of all the officers of De Soto's command, for he evidently bent
every energy to extricate his men from the dreadful environments
of their situation; despairing of reaching the Gulf by the Mississippi,
he struck westward, hoping, as Cabeca de Vaca had done, to arrive
in Mexico overland.
The next recorded expedition across the plains via the Old Trail
was also by the Spaniards from Santa Fe, eastwardly, in the year 1716,
"for the purpose of establishing a Military Post in the Upper
Mississippi Valley as a barrier to the further encroachments of
the French in that direction." An account of this expedition is found
in _Memoires Historiques sur La Louisiane_, published in Paris in 1858,
but never translated in its entirety. The author, Lieutenant Dumont
of the French army, was one of a party ascending the Arkansas River
in search of a supposed mass of emeralds. The narrative relates:
There was more than half a league to traverse to gain the
other bank of the river, and our people were no sooner
arrived than they found there a party of Missouris, sent to
M. de la Harpe by M. de Bienville, then commandant general
at Louisiana, to deliver orders to the former. Consequently
they gave the signal order, and our other two canoes having
crossed the river, the savages gave to our commandant the
letters of M. de Bienville, in which he informed him that
the Spaniards had sent out a detachment from New Mexico
to go to the Missouris and to establish a post in that
country. . . . The success of this expedition was very
calamitous to the Spaniards. Their caravan was composed of
fifteen hundred people, men, women and soldiers, having
with them a Jacobin for a chaplain, and bringing also a
great number of horses and cattle, according to the custom
of that nation to forget nothing that might be necessary for
a settlement. Their design was to destroy the Missouris,
and to seize upon their country, and with this intention
they had resolved to go first to the Osages, a neighbouring
nation, enemies of the Missouris, to form an alliance with
them, and to engage them in their behalf for the execution
of their plan. Perhaps the map which guided them was not
correct, or they had not exactly followed it, for it chanced
that instead of going to the Osages whom they sought, they
fell, without knowing it, into a village of the Missouris,
where the Spanish commander, presenting himself to the great
chief and offering him the calumet, made him understand
through an interpreter, believing himself to be speaking
to the Osage chief, that they were enemies of the Missouris,
that they had come to destroy them, to make their women
and children slaves and to take possession of their country.
He begged the chief to be willing to form an alliance
with them, against a nation whom the Osages regarded as
their enemy, and to second them in this enterprise, promising
to recompense them liberally for the service rendered,
and always to be their friend in the future. Upon this
discourse the Missouri chief understood perfectly well
the mistake. He dissimulated and thanked the Spaniard for
the confidence he had in his nation; he consented to form
an alliance with them against the Missouris, and to join
them with all his forces to destroy them; but he represented
that his people were not armed, and that they dared not
expose themselves without arms in such an enterprise.
Deceived by so favourable a reception, the Spaniards fell
into the trap laid for them. They received with due
ceremony, in the little camp they had formed on their
arrival, the calumet which the great chief of the Missouris
presented to the Spanish commander. The alliance for war
was sworn to by both parties; they agreed upon a day for
the execution of the plan which they meditated, and the
Spaniards furnished the savages with all the munitions which
they thought were needed. After the ceremony both parties
gave themselves up equally to joy and good cheer. At the
end of three days two thousand savages were armed and in
the midst of dances and amusements; each party thought
nothing but the execution of its design. It was the evening
before their departure upon their concerted expedition,
and the Spaniards had retired to their camps as usual,
when the great chief of the Missouris, having assembled
his warriors, declared to them his intentions and exhorted
them to deal treacherously with these strangers who were come
to their home only with the design of destroying them.
At daybreak the savages divided into several bands, fell on
the Spaniards, who expected nothing of the kind, and in
less than a quarter of an hour all the caravan were murdered.
No one escaped from the massacre except the chaplain, whom
the barbarians saved because of his dress; at the same time
they took possession of all the merchandise and other
effects which they found in their camp. The Spaniards had
brought with them, as I have said, a certain number of horses,
and as the savages were ignorant of the use of these animals,
they took pleasure in making the Jacobin whom they had saved,
and who had become their slave, mount them. The priest gave
them this amusement almost every day for the five or six
months that he remained with them in their village, without
any of them daring to imitate him. Tired at last of his
slavery, and regarding the lack of daring in these barbarians
as a means of Providence to regain his liberty, he made
secretly all the provisions possible for him to make,
and which he believed necessary to his plan. At last,
having chosen the best horse and having mounted him,
after performing several of his exploits before the savages,
and while they were all occupied with his manoeuvres,
he spurred up and disappeared from their sight, taking the
road to Mexico, where doubtless he arrived.
The Missouri Indians once occupied all the territory near the junction
of the Kaw and Missouri rivers, but they were constantly decimated
by the continual depredations of their warlike and feudal enemies,
the Pawnees and Sioux, and at last fell a prey to that dreadful
scourge, the small-pox, which swept them off by thousands.
The remnant of the once powerful tribe then found shelter and a home
with the Otoes, finally becoming merged in that tribe.
CHAPTER I.
UNDER THE SPANIARDS.
The Santa Fe of the purely Mexican occupation, long before the days
of New Mexico's acquisition by the United States, and the Santa Fe of
to-day are so widely in contrast that it is difficult to find language
in which to convey to the reader the story of the phenomenal change.
To those who are acquainted with the charming place as it is now,
with its refined and cultured society, I cannot do better, perhaps,
in attempting to show what it was under the old regime, than to quote
what some traveller in the early 30's wrote for a New York leading
newspaper, in regard to it. As far as my own observation of the
place is concerned, when I first visited it a great many years ago,
the writer of the communication whose views I now present was not
incorrect in his judgment. He said:--
The old adobe Palace is in itself a volume whose pages are filled
with pathos and stirring events. It has been the scene and witness
of incidents the recital of which would to us to-day seem incredible.
An old friend, once governor of New Mexico and now dead, thus
graphically spoke of the venerable building:[7]
The Palace was the only building having glazed windows. At one end
was the government printing office, and at the other, the guard-house
and prison. Fearful stories were connected with the prison.
Edwards[8] says that he found, on examining the walls of the
small rooms, locks of human hair stuffed into holes, with rude
crosses drawn over them.
Fronting the Palace, on the south side of the Plaza, stood the
remains of the Capilla de los Soldados, or Military Chapel.
The real name of the church was "Our Lady of Light." It was said
to be the richest church in the Province, but had not been in use
for a number of years, and the roof had fallen in, allowing the
elements to complete the work of destruction. On each side of the
altar was the remains of fine carving, and a weather-beaten picture
above gave evidence of having been a beautiful painting. Over the
door was a large oblong slab of freestone, elaborately carved,
representing "Our Lady of Light" rescuing a human being from the
jaws of Satan. A large tablet, beautifully executed in relief,
stood behind the altar, representing various saints, with an
inscription stating that it was erected by Governor Francisco Antonio
del Valle and his wife in 1761.
Between 1605 and 1616 was founded the Villa of Santa Fe, or
San Francisco de la Santa Fe. "Villa," or village, was an honorary
title, always authorized and proclaimed by the king. Bancroft says
that it was first officially mentioned on the 3d of January, 1617.
The first immigration to New Mexico was under Don Juan de Onate
about 1597, and in a year afterward, according to some authorities,
Santa Fe was settled. The place, as claimed by some historians,
was then named El Teguayo, a Spanish adaptation of the word "Tegua,"
the name of the Pueblo nation, which was quite numerous, and occupied
Santa Fe and the contiguous country. It very soon, from its central
position and charming climate, became the leading Spanish town,
and the capital of the Province. The Spaniards, who came at first
into the country as friends, and were apparently eager to obtain
the good-will of the intelligent natives, shortly began to claim
superiority, and to insist on the performance of services which were
originally mere evidences of hospitality and kindness. Little by
little they assumed greater power and control over the Indians,
until in the course of years they had subjected a large portion of
them to servitude little differing from actual slavery.
Thus it will be seen that the quaint old city has been the scene of
many important historical events, the mere outline of which I have
recorded here, as this book is not devoted to the historical view
of the subject.
The tourist will no longer find a drowsy old town, and the Plaza
is no longer unfenced and uncared for. A beautiful park of trees
is surrounded by low palings, and inside the shady enclosure,
under a group of large cottonwoods, is a cenotaph erected to the
memory of the Territory's gallant soldiers who fell in the shock of
battle to save New Mexico to the Union in 1862, and conspicuous among
the names carved on the enduring native rock is that of Kit Carson--
prince of frontiersmen, and one of Nature's noblemen.
Around the Plaza one sees the American style of architecture and
hears the hum of American civilization; but beyond, and outside
this pretty park, the streets are narrow, crooked, and have an
ancient appearance. There the old Santa Fe confronts the stranger;
odd, foreign-looking, and flavoured with all the peculiarities which
marked the era of Mexican rule. And now, where once was heard the
excited shouts of the idle crowd, of "Los Americanos!" "Los Carros!"
"La entrada de la Caravana!" as the great freight wagons rolled into
the streets of the old town from the Missouri, over the Santa Fe Trail,
the shrill whistle of the locomotive from its trail of steel awakens
the echoes of the mighty hills.
What a wonderful change has taken place in the traffic with New Mexico
in less than three-quarters of a century! In 1825 it was all carried
on with one single annual caravan of prairie-schooners, and now there
are four railroads running through the Rio Grande Valley, and one
daily freight train of the Atchison, Topeka, and Santa Fe into the
town unloads more freight than was taken there in a whole year when
the "commerce of the prairies" was at its height!
Upon the arrival of a caravan in the days of the sleepy regime under
Mexican control, the people did everything in their power to make
the time pass pleasantly for every one connected with it during
their sojourn. Bailes, or fandangoes, as the dancing parties were
called by the natives, were given nightly, and many amusing anecdotes
in regard to them are related by the old-timers.
The New Mexicans, both men and women, had a great fondness for
jewelry, dress, and amusements; of the latter, the fandango was the
principal, which was held in the most fashionable place of resort,
where every belle and beauty in the town presented herself,
attired in the most costly manner, and displaying her jewelled
ornaments to the best advantage. To this place of recreation
and pleasure, generally a large, capacious saloon or interior court,
all classes of persons were allowed to come, without charge and
without invitation. The festivities usually commenced about nine
o'clock in the evening, and the tolling of the church bells was
the signal for the ladies to make their entrance, which they did
almost simultaneously.
New Mexican ladies were famous for their gaudy dresses, but it must
be confessed they did not exercise good taste. Their robes were
made without bodies; a skirt only, and a long, loose, flowing scarf
or reboso dexterously thrown about the head and shoulders, so as to
supersede both the use of dress-bodies and bonnets.
There was very little order maintained at these fandangoes, and still
less attention paid to the rules of etiquette. A kind of swinging,
gallopade waltz was the favourite dance, the cotillion not being
much in vogue. Read Byron's graphic description of the waltz,
and then stretch your imagination to its utmost tension, and you
will perhaps have some faint conception of the Mexican fandango.
Such familiarity of position as was indulged in would be repugnant
to the refined rules of polite society in the eastern cities;
but with the New Mexicans, in those early times, nothing was
considered to be a greater accomplishment than that of being able
to go handsomely through all the mazes of their peculiar dance.
There was one republican feature about the New Mexican fandango;
it was that all classes, rich and poor alike, met and intermingled,
as did the Romans at their Saturnalia, upon terms of equality.
Sumptuous repasts or collations were rarely ever prepared for those
frolicsome gatherings, but there was always an abundance of
confectionery, sweetmeats, and native wine. It cost very little
for a man to attend one of the fandangoes in Santa Fe, but not to get
away decently and sober. In that it resembled the descent of Aeneas
to Pluto's realms; it was easy enough to get there, but when it came
to return, "revocare gradum, superasque evadere ad auras, hic labor,
hoc opus est."
CHAPTER II.
LA LANDE AND PURSLEY.
In the beginning of the trade with New Mexico, the route across
the great plains was directly west from the Missouri River to the
mountains, thence south to Santa Fe by the circuitous trail from Taos.
When the traffic assumed an importance demanding a more easy line
of way, the road was changed, running along the left bank of the
Arkansas until that stream turned northwest, at which point it
crossed the river, and continued southwest to the Raton Pass.
The overland trade between the United States and the northern
provinces of Mexico seems to have had no very definite origin;
having been rather the result of an accident than of any organized
plan of commercial establishment.
Thus for hundreds of miles did this solitary trapper float down this
unknown river, through an unknown country, here and there lashing
his canoe to the willows and planting his traps in the little
tributaries around. The upper part of the Arkansas, for this
proved to be the river he was on,[12] is very destitute of timber,
and the prairie frequently begins at the bank of the river and
expands on either side as far as the eye can reach. He saw vast
herds of buffalo, and as it was the rutting season, the bulls were
making a wonderful ado; the prairie resounded with their low, deep
grunting or bellowing, as they tore up the earth with their feet
and horns, whisking their tails, and defying their rivals to battle.
Large gangs of wild horses could be seen grazing on the plains and
hillsides, and the neighing and squealing of stallions might be heard
at all times of the night.
Captain Williams never used his rifle to procure meat, except when
it was absolutely necessary, or could be done with perfect safety.
On occasions when he had no beaver, upon which he generally subsisted,
he ventured to kill a deer, and after refreshing his empty stomach
with a portion of the flesh, he placed the carcass in one end of the
canoe. It was his invariable custom to sleep in his canoe at night,
moored to the shore, and once when he had laid in a supply of venison
he was startled in his sleep by the tramping of something in the
bushes on the bank. Tramp! tramp! tramp! went the footsteps,
as they approached the canoe. He thought at first it might be an
Indian that had found out his locality, but he knew that it could
not be; a savage would not approach him in that careless manner.
Although there was beautiful starlight, yet the trees and the dense
undergrowth made it very dark on the bank of the river, close to which
he lay. He always adopted the precaution of tying his canoe with
a piece of rawhide about twenty feet long, which allowed it to swing
from the bank at that distance; he did this so that in case of an
emergency he might cut the string, and glide off without making
any noise. As the sound of the footsteps grew more distinct,
he presently observed a huge grizzly bear coming down to the water
and swimming for the canoe. The great animal held his head up as if
scenting the venison. The captain snatched his axe as the most
available means to defend himself in such a scrape, and stood with
it uplifted, ready to drive it into the brains of the monster.
The bear reached the canoe, and immediately put his fore paws upon
the hind end of it, nearly turning it over. The captain struck one
of the brute's feet with the edge of the axe, which made him let go
with that foot, but he held on with the other, and he received
this time a terrific blow on the head, that caused him to drop away
from the canoe entirely. Nothing more was seen of the bear,
and the captain thought he must have sunk in the stream and drowned.
He was evidently after the fresh meat, which he scented from a great
distance. In the canoe the next morning there were two of the bear's
claws, which had been cut off by the well-directed blow of the axe.
These were carefully preserved by Williams for many years as a trophy
which he was fond of exhibiting, and the history of which he always
delighted to tell.
Only a short time after he had landed, he heard Indians again going
on shore on the same side of the stream as himself. A second time
he repeated his tactics, slipped out of his place of concealment,
and stole softly away. He pulled on vigorously until some time after
midnight, when he supposed he could with safety stop and snatch a
little sleep. He felt apprehensive that he was in a dangerous region,
and his anxiety kept him wide awake. It was very lucky that he
did not close his eyes; for as he was lying in the bottom of his canoe
he heard for the third time a canoe land as before. He was now
perfectly satisfied that he was dogged by the Kansans whom he had
passed the preceding day, and in no very good humour, therefore,
he picked up his rifle, and walked up to the bank where he had heard
the Indians land. As he suspected, there were the three savages.
When they saw the captain, they immediately renewed their expressions
of friendship, and invited him to partake of their hospitality.
He stood aloof from them, and shook his head in a rage, charging
them with their villanous purposes. In the short, sententious manner
of the Indians, he said to them: "You now follow me three times;
if you follow me again, I kill you!" and wheeling around abruptly,
returned to his canoe. A third time the solitary trapper pushed
his little craft from the shore and set off down stream, to get away
from a region where to sleep would be hazardous. He plied his oars
the remainder of the night, and solaced himself with the thought
that no evil had befallen him, except the loss of a few hours' sleep.
Williams reached the agency by the time the Kansas Indians arrived
there, and, as he suspected, found that the wily old chief had brought
all his belongings, which he claimed, and the agent made the savages
give up the stolen property before he would pay them a cent of their
annuities. He took his furs down to St. Louis, sold them there
at a good price, and then started back to the Rocky Mountains on
another trapping tour.
CHAPTER III.
EARLY TRADERS.
His temerity in abandoning the known for the unknown was severely
punished, and his brave men suffered untold misery, barely escaping
with their lives from the terrible straits to which they were reduced.
Not having the remotest conception of the region through which their
new trail was to lead them, and naturally supposing that water would
be found in streams or springs, when they left the Arkansas they
neglected to supply themselves with more than enough of the precious
fluid to last a couple of days. At the end of that time they learned,
too late, that they were in the midst of a desert, with all the
tortures of thirst threatening them.
Although they were near the Cimarron, where there was plenty of water,
which but for the affair of the buffalo they never would have suspected,
they decided to retrace their steps to the Arkansas.
While occupying the island, Chouteau and his old hunters and trappers
were attacked by about three hundred Pawnees, whom they repulsed
with the loss of thirty killed and wounded. These Indians afterward
declared that it was the most fatal affair in which they were ever
engaged. It was their first acquaintance with American guns.
The general character of the early trade with New Mexico was founded
on the system of the caravan. She depended upon the remote ports
of old Mexico, whence was transported, on the backs of the patient
burro and mule, all that was required by the primitive tastes of the
primitive people; a very tedious and slow process, as may be inferred,
and the limited traffic westwardly across the great plains was
confined to this fashion. At the date of the legitimate and
substantial commerce with New Mexico, in 1824, wheeled vehicles were
introduced, and traffic assumed an importance it could never have
otherwise attained, and which now, under the vast system of railroads,
has increased to dimensions little dreamed of by its originators
nearly three-quarters of a century ago.
It was eight years after Pursley's pilgrimage before the trade with
New Mexico attracted the attention of speculators and adventurers.
Messrs. McKnight,[13] Beard, and Chambers, with about a dozen comrades,
started with a supply of goods across the unknown plains, and by
good luck arrived safely at Santa Fe. Once under the jurisdiction
of the Mexicans, however, their trouble began. All the party were
arrested as spies, their wares confiscated, and themselves
incarcerated at Chihuahua, where the majority of them were kept for
almost a decade. Beard and Chambers, having by some means escaped,
returned to St. Louis in 1822, and, notwithstanding their dreadful
experience, told of the prospects of the trade with the Mexicans
in such glowing colours that they induced some individuals of small
capital to fit out another expedition, with which they again set out
for Santa Fe.
We took up the green sodd, and laid it by, and digg'd a hole
in the Earth where we put our Goods, and cover'd them with
pieces of Timber and Earth, and then put in again the green
Turf; so that 'twas impossible to suspect that any Hole had
been digg'd under it, for we flung the Earth into the River.
After caching their goods, Beard and the party went on to Taos,
where they bought mules, and returning to their caches transported
their contents to their market.
The word "cache" still lingers among the "old-timers" of the mountains
and plains, and has become a provincialism with their descendants;
one of these will tell you that he cached his vegetables in the side
of the hill; or if he is out hunting and desires to secrete himself
from approaching game, he will say, "I am going to cache behind
that rock," etc.
The importance of internal trade with New Mexico, and the possibilities
of its growth, were first recognized by the United States in 1824,
the originator of the movement being Mr. Thomas Hart Benton of Missouri,
who frequently, from his place in the Senate, prophesied the coming
greatness of the West. He introduced a bill which authorized the
President to appoint a commission to survey a road from the Missouri
River to the boundary line of New Mexico, and from thence on Mexican
territory with the consent of the Mexican government. The signing of
this bill was one of the last acts of Mr. Monroe's official life,
and it was carried into effect by his successor, Mr. John Quincy Adams,
but unfortunately a mistake was made in supposing that the Osage
Indians alone controlled the course of the proposed route. It was
partially marked out as far as the Arkansas, by raised mounds;
but travellers continued to use the old wagon trail, and as no
negotiations had been entered into with the Comanches, Cheyennes,
Pawnees, or Kiowas, these warlike tribes continued to harass the
caravans when these arrived in the broad valley of the Arkansas.
The American fur trade was at its height at the time when the Santa Fe
trade was just beginning to assume proportions worthy of notice;
the difference between the two enterprises being very marked. The fur
trade was in the hands of immensely wealthy companies, while that to
Santa Fe was carried on by individuals with limited capital, who,
purchasing goods in the Eastern markets, had them transported to
the Missouri River, where, until the trade to New Mexico became a
fixed business, everything was packed on mules. As soon, however,
as leading merchants invested their capital, about 1824, the trade
grew into vast proportions, and wagons took the place of the patient
mule. Later, oxen were substituted for mules, it having been
discovered that they possessed many advantages over the former,
particularly in being able to draw heavier loads than an equal number
of mules, especially through sandy or muddy places.
For a long time, the traders were in the habit of purchasing their
mules in Santa Fe and driving them to the Missouri; but as soon as
that useful animal was raised in sufficient numbers in the Southern
States to supply the demand, the importation from New Mexico ceased,
for the reason that the American mule was in all respects an immensely
superior animal.
Once mules were an important object of the trade, and those who dealt
in them and drove them across to the river on the Trail met with
many mishaps; frequently whole droves, containing from three to
five hundred, were stolen by the savages en route. The latter soon
learned that it was a very easy thing to stampede a caravan of mules,
for, once panic-stricken, it is impossible to restrain them, and
the Indians having started them kept them in a state of rampant
excitement by their blood-curdling yells, until they had driven them
miles beyond the Trail.
In 1829 the Indians of the plains became such a terror to the caravans
crossing to Santa Fe, that the United States government, upon petition
of the traders, ordered three companies of infantry and one of riflemen,
under command of Major Bennet Riley, to escort the annual caravan,
which that year started from the town of Franklin, Missouri, then the
eastern terminus of the Santa Fe trade, as far as Chouteau's Island,
on the Arkansas, which marked the boundary between the United States
and Mexico.[16] The caravan started from the island across the dreary
route unaccompanied by any troops, but had progressed only a few miles
when it was attacked by a band of Kiowas, then one of the most cruel
and bloodthirsty tribes on the plains.[17]
This escort, commanded by Major Riley, and another under Captain
Wharton, composed of only sixty dragoons, five years later, were the
sole protection ever given by the government until 1843, when Captain
Philip St. George Cooke again accompanied two large caravans to the
same point on the Arkansas as did Major Riley fourteen years before.
Believing himself now on Red River, within the then assumed limits
of the United States, he built a small fortification for his company,
until the opening of the spring of 1807 should enable him to continue
his descent to Natchitoches. As he was really within Mexican
territory, and only about eighty miles from the northern settlements,
his position was soon discovered, and a force sent to take him to
Santa Fe, which by treachery was effected without opposition.
The Spanish officer assured him that the governor, learning that
he had mistaken his way, had sent animals and an escort to convey
his men and baggage to a navigable point on Red River (Rio Colorado),
and that His Excellency desired very much to see him at Santa Fe,
which might be taken on their way.
From the Missouri the Trail was broad and plain enough for a child
to follow, but when they arrived at the Cimarron crossing of
the Arkansas, not a trace of former caravans was visible; nothing but
the innumerable buffalo-trails leading from everywhere to the river.
When the party entered the desert, or Dry Route, as it was years
afterward always, and very properly, called in certain seasons
of drought, the brave but too confident men discovered that the
whole region was burnt up. They wandered on for several days,
the horrors of death by thirst constantly confronting them.
Water must be had or they would all perish! At last Smith, in his
desperation, determined to follow one of the numerous buffalo-trails,
believing that it would conduct him to water of some character--
a lake or pool or even wallow. He left the train alone; asked for
no one to accompany him; for he was the very impersonation of courage,
one of the most fearless men that ever trapped in the mountains.
Captain Sublette and Smith's other comrades did not know what had
become of him until some Mexican traders told them, having got the
report from the very savages who committed the cold-blooded murder.
Gregg, in his report of this little expedition, says:
Every kind of fatality seems to have attended this small
caravan. Among other casualties, a clerk in their company,
named Minter, was killed by a band of Pawnees, before they
crossed the Arkansas. This, I believe, is the only instance
of loss of life among the traders while engaged in hunting,
although the scarcity of accidents can hardly be said to be
the result of prudence. There is not a day that hunters
do not commit some indescretion; such as straying at
a distance of five and even ten miles from the caravan,
frequently alone, and seldom in bands of more than two or
three together. In this state, they must frequently be
spied by prowling savages; so that frequency of escape,
under such circumstances, must be partly attributed to
the cowardice of the Indians; indeed, generally speaking,
the latter are very loth to charge upon even a single
armed man, unless they can take him at a decided advantage.
Gregg continues:
The early voyageurs, having but seldom experienced any
molestation from the Indians, generally crossed the plains
in detached bands, each individual rarely carrying more than
two or three hundred dollars' worth of stock. This peaceful
season, however, did not last very long; and it is greatly
to be feared that the traders were not always innocent of
having instigated the savage hostilities that ensued in
after years. Many seemed to forget the wholesome precept,
that they should not be savages themselves because they
dealt with savages. Instead of cultivating friendly
feelings with those few who remained peaceful and honest,
there was an occasional one always disposed to kill,
even in cold blood, every Indian that fell into their power,
merely because some of the tribe had committed an outrage
either against themselves or friends.
The author of this book, although having but little compassion for
the Indians, must admit that, during more than a third of a century
passed on the plains and in the mountains, he has never known of
a war with the hostile tribes that was not caused by broken faith
on the part of the United States or its agents. I will refer to
two prominent instances: that of the outbreak of the Nez Perces, and
that of the allied plains tribes. With the former a solemn treaty
was made in 1856, guaranteeing to them occupancy of the Wallola valley
forever. I. I. Stevens, who was governor of Washington Territory
at the time, and ex-officio superintendent of Indian affairs in
the region, met the Nez Perces, whose chief, "Wish-la-no-she,"
an octogenarian, when grasping the hand of the governor at the council
said: "I put out my hand to the white man when Lewis and Clark
crossed the continent, in 1805, and have never taken it back since."
The tribe kept its word until the white men took forcible possession
of the valley promised to the Indians, when the latter broke out,
and a prolonged war was the consequence. In 1867 Congress appointed
a commission to treat with the Cheyennes, Kiowas, and Arapahoes,
appropriating four hundred thousand dollars for the expenses of
the commission. It met at Medicine Lodge in August of the year
mentioned, and made a solemn treaty, which the members of the
commission, on the part of the United States, and the principal
chiefs of the three tribes signed. Congress failed to make any
appropriation to carry out the provisions of the treaty, and the
Indians, after waiting a reasonable time, broke out, devastated
the settlements from the Platte to the Rio Grande, destroying
millions of dollars' worth of property, and sacrificing hundreds
of men, women, and children. Another war was the result, which
cost more millions, and under General Sheridan the hostile savages
were whipped into a peace, which they have been compelled to keep.
CHAPTER IV.
TRAINS AND PACKERS.
As has been stated, until the year 1824 transportation across the
plains was done by means of pack-mules, the art of properly loading
which seems to be an intuitive attribute of the native Mexican.
The American, of course, soon became as expert, for nothing that
the genus homo is capable of doing is impossible to him; but his
teacher was the dark-visaged, superstitious, and profanity-expending
Mexican arriero.
The load, which is termed a carga, was generally three hundred pounds.
Two arrieros, or packers, place the goods on the mule's back,
one, the cargador, standing on the near side, his assistant on
the other. The carga is then hoisted on top of the saddle if it
is a single package; or if there are two of equal size and weight,
one on each side, coupled by a rope, which balances them on the
animal. Another stout rope is then thrown over all, drawn as tightly
as possible under the belly, and laced round the packs, securing
them firmly in their place. Over the load, to protect it from rain,
is thrown a square piece of matting called a petate. Sometimes,
when a mule is a little refractory, he is blindfolded by a thin
piece of leather, generally embroidered, termed the tapojos, and
he remains perfectly quiet while the process of packing is going on.
When the load is securely fastened in its place, the blinder is
removed. The man on the near side, with his knee against the mule
for a purchase, as soon as the rope is hauled taut, cries out "Adios,"
and his assistant answers "Vaya!" Then the first says again, "Anda!"
upon which the mule trots off to its companions, all of which feed
around until the animals of the whole train are packed. It seldom
requires more than five minutes for the two men to complete the
packing of the animal, and in that time is included the fastening
of the aperejo. It is surprising to note the degree of skill
exercised by an experienced packer, and his apparently abnormal
strength in handling the immense bundles that are sometimes
transported. By the aid of his knees used as a fulcrum, he lifts
a package and tosses it on the mule's back without any apparent
effort, the dead weight of which he could not move from the ground.
The largest six-mule wagon-train that was ever strung out on the
plains transported the supplies for General Custer's command during
the winter above referred to. It comprised over eight hundred
army-wagons, and was four miles in length in one column, or one mile
when in four lines--the usual formation when in the field.
CHAPTER V.
FIGHT WITH COMANCHES.
There was only one road open to us; that right through
the camp. Assuming the bravest look possible, and keeping
our rifles in position for immediate action, we started
on the perilous venture. The chief met us with a smile
of welcome, and said, in Spanish: "You must stay with us
to-night. Our young men will guard your stock, and we have
plenty of buffalo meat."
At one place two of our men laid down their arms, declaring
they could carry them no farther, and would die if they
did not get water. We left them and went in search of some.
After following a dry branch several miles, we found
a muddy puddle from which we succeeded in getting half
a bucket full, and, although black and thick, it was life
for us and we guarded it with jealous eyes. We returned
to our comrades about daylight, and the water so refreshed
them they were able to resume the weary march. We travelled
on until we arrived at the Big Blue River, in Missouri,
on the bank of which we discovered a cabin about fifteen
miles from Independence. The occupants of the rude shanty
were women, seemingly very poor, but they freely offered us
a pot of pumpkin they were stewing. When they first saw us,
they were terribly frightened, because we looked more like
skeletons than living beings. They jumped on the bed while
we were greedily devouring the pumpkin, but we had to
refuse some salt meat which they had also proffered,
as our teeth were too sore to eat it. In a short time
two men came to the cabin and took three of our men
home with them. We had subsisted for eleven days on
one turkey, a coon, a crow, and some elm bark, with an
occasional bunch of wild grapes, and the pictures we
presented to these good people they will never, probably,
forget; we had not tasted bread or salt for thirty-two days.
The next day our newly found friends secured horses and
guided us to Independence, all riding without saddles.
One of the party had gone on to notify the citizens of
our safety, and when we arrived general muster was going on,
the town was crowded, and when the people looked upon us
the most intense excitement prevailed. All business was
suspended; the entire population flocked around us to hear
the remarkable story of our adventures, and to render us
the assistance we so much needed. We were half-naked,
foot-sore, and haggard, presenting such a pitiable picture
that the greatest sympathy was immediately aroused in
our behalf.
They were gone from Independence several days, but had the
good fortune to find all the men just in time to save them
from starvation and exhaustion. Two were discovered
a hundred miles from Independence, and the remainder
scattered along the Trail fifty miles further in their rear.
Not more than two of the unfortunate party were together.
The humane rescuers seemingly brought back nothing but
living skeletons wrapped in rags; but the good people of
the place vied with each other in their attentions, and
under their watchful care the sufferers rapidly recuperated.
One would suppose that we had had enough of the great plains
after our first trip; not so, however, for in the spring
we started again on the same journey. Major Riley, with
four companies of regular soldiers, was detailed to escort
the Santa Fe traders' caravans to the boundary line between
the United States and Mexico, and we went along to recover
the money we had buried, the command having been ordered to
remain in camp to await our return until the 20th of October.
After the last savage had ridden away into the sand hills
on the opposite side of the river, each one of us had a
thrilling story to relate of his individual narrow escapes.
Though none was killed, many received wounds, the scars
of which they carried through life. I was wounded six
times. Once was in the thigh by an arrow, and once while
loading my rifle I had my ramrod shot off close to the
muzzle of my piece, the ball just grazing my shoulder,
tearing away a small portion of the skin. Others had
equally curious experiences, but none were seriously injured.
The savages soon overtook me, and the first one that
came up tackled me, but in an instant found himself flat
on the ground. Before he could get up, the second one
shared the same fate. By this time the third one arrived,
and the two I had thrown grabbed me by the legs so that
I could no longer handle myself, while the third one had
a comparatively easy task in pushing me over. Fortunately,
my head fell toward the camp and my fast-approaching
comrades. The two Indians held my legs to prevent my
rising, while the third one, who was standing over me,
drew from his belt a tomahawk, and shrugging his head
in his blanket, at the same time looking over his shoulder
at my friends, with a tremendous effort and that peculiar
grunt of all savages, plunged his hatchet, as he supposed,
into my head, but instead of scuffling to free myself
and rise to my feet, I merely turned my head to one side
and the wicked weapon was buried in the ground, just
grazing my ear.
Though our burdens were very heavy, the first few days
were passed without anything to relieve the dreadful
monotony of our wearisome march; but each succeeding
twenty-four hours our loads became visibly lighter,
as our supplies were rapidly diminishing. It had already
become apparent that even in the exercise of the greatest
frugality, our stock of provisions would not last until
we could reach the settlements, so some of the most expert
shots were selected to hunt for game; but even in this
they were not successful, the very birds seeming to have
abandoned the country in its extreme desolation.
In the spring of 1829, Major Bennett Riley of the United States army
was ordered with four companies of the Sixth Regular Infantry to
march out on the Trail as the first military escort ever sent for
the protection of the caravans of traders going and returning between
Western Missouri and Santa Fe. Captain Philip St. George Cooke,
of the Dragoons, accompanied the command, and kept a faithful journal
of the trip, from which, and the official report of Major Riley to
the Secretary of War, I have interpolated here copious extracts.
After five days' marching, the command arrived at Round Grove, where
the caravan had been ordered to rendezvous and wait for the escort.
The number of traders aggregated about seventy-nine men, and their
train consisted of thirty-eight wagons drawn by mules and horses,
the former preponderating. Five days' marching, at an average of
fifteen miles a day, brought them to Council Grove. Leaving the
Grove, in a short time Cow Creek was reached, which at that date
abounded in fish; many of which, says the journal, "weighed several
pounds, and were caught as fast as the line could be handled."
The captain does not describe the variety to which he refers;
probably they were the buffalo--a species of sucker, to be found
to-day in every considerable stream in Kansas.
When the next morning broke clear and cloudless, the command
was confronted by one of those terrible hot winds, still
frequent on the plains. The oxen with lolling tongues
were incapable of going on; the train was halted, and the
suffering animals unyoked, but they stood motionless,
making no attempt to graze. Late that afternoon, the
caravan pushed on for about ten miles, where was the
sandy bed of a dry creek, and fortunately, not far from
the Trail, up the stream, a pool of water and an acre
or two of grass was discovered. On the surface of the
water floated thick the dead bodies of small fish, which
the intense heat of the sun that day had killed.
CHAPTER VI.
A ROMANTIC TRAGEDY.
Carson, who was then not blessed with much money, eagerly accepted
the task, and immediately started on the trail for Bent's Fort,
in company with another old mountaineer and bosom friend named Owens.
In a short time they arrived at the Fort, where Owens decided not
to go any further, because they were informed by the men at Bent's
that the Utes had broken out, and were scattered along the Trail
at the most dangerous points, and he was fearful that his life
would be endangered if he attempted to make Santa Fe.
Before Armijo left Santa Fe with his command, he had received the
letter which Carson had brought from the caravan, and immediately
sent one in reply for Carson to carry back, thinking that the old
mountaineer might reach the wagons before he did. Carson, with his
usual promptness, started on the Trail for the caravan, and came up
with it while it was escorted by the dragoons, thus saving it from
the fate that the Texans intended for it, as they dared not attempt
any interference in the presence of the United States troops.
Among those who had no fear of marauders was Don Antonio Jose Chavez,
who, in February, 1843, left Santa Fe for Independence with an outfit
consisting of a number of wagons, his private coach, several servants
and other retainers. Don Antonio was a very wealthy Mexican engaged
in a general mercantile business on a large scale in Albuquerque,
who made all his purchases of goods in St. Louis, which was then
the depot of supplies for the whole mountain region. He necessarily
carried with him on these journeys a large amount of money, in silver,
which was the legal currency of the country, and made but one trip
yearly to replenish the stock of goods required in his extensive
trade in all parts of Mexico.
Upon his arrival at Westport Landing, as Kansas City was then called,
he would take the steamboat for St. Louis, leaving his coach, wagons,
servants, and other appointments of his caravan behind him in the
village of Westport, a few miles from the Landing.
Westport was at that time, like all steamboat towns in the era of
water navigation, the harbor of as great a lot of ruffians as ever
escaped the gallows. There was especially a noted gang of land pirates,
the members of which had long indulged in speculations regarding the
probable wealth of the Mexican Don, and how much coin he generally
carried with him. They knew that it must be considerable from the
quantity of goods that always came by boat with him from St. Louis.
At last a devilish plot was arranged to get hold of the rich trader's
money. Nine men were concerned in the robbery, nearly all of whom
were residents of the vicinity of Westport; their leader was one
John McDaniel, recently from Texas, from which government he claimed
to hold a captain's commission, and one of their number was a doctor.
It was evidently the intention of this band to join Warfield's party
on the Arkansas, and engage in a general robbery of the freight
caravans of the Santa Fe Trail belonging to the Mexicans; but they
had determined that Chavez should be their first victim, and in order
to learn when he intended to leave Santa Fe on his next trip east,
they sent their spies out on the great highway.
They did not dare attempt their contemplated robbery, and murder
if necessary, in the State of Missouri, for there were too many
citizens of the border who would never have permitted such a thing
to go unpunished; so they knew that their only chance was to effect it
in the Indian country of Kansas, where there was little or no law.
The Don was taken a few miles south of the Trail, and his baggage
rifled. All of his party were immediately murdered, but the wealthy
owner of the caravan was spared for a few moments in order to make
a confession of where his money was concealed, after which he was
shot down in cold blood, and his body thrown into a ravine.
Hobbs and his men cheerfully accepted the invitation, and in about
four days met the band of cut-throats on the broad Trail, they little
dreaming that the government had taken a hand in the matter.
The band tried to escape by flight, but Hobbs shot the doctor's horse
from under him, and a soldier killed another member of the band,
when the remainder surrendered.
The money taken from the robbers was placed in charge of Colonel Owens,
a friend of the Chavez family and a leading Santa Fe trader.
He continued on to the river, purchased a stock of goods, and
sent back the caravan to Santa Fe in charge of Doctor Conley of
Boonville, Missouri.
CHAPTER VII.
MEXICO DECLARES WAR.
Mexico declared war against the United States in April, 1846. In the
following May, Congress passed an act authorizing the President to
call into the field fifty thousand volunteers, designed to operate
against Mexico at three distinct points, and consisting of the
Southern Wing, or the Army of Occupation, the Army of the Centre,
and the Army of the West, the latter to direct its march upon the
city of Santa Fe. The original plan was, however, somewhat changed,
and General Kearney, who commanded the Army of the West, divided his
forces into three separate commands. The first he led in person
to the Pacific coast. One thousand volunteers, under command of
Colonel A. W. Doniphan, were to make a descent upon the State of
Chihuahua, while the remainder and greater part of the forces, under
Colonel Sterling Price, were to garrison Santa Fe after its capture.
In a day or two after the command had left Pawnee Fork, while camping
in a beautiful spot on the bank of the Arkansas, an officer, Major
Howard, who had been sent forward to Santa Fe some time previously
by the general to learn something of the feeling of the people
in relation to submitting to the government of the United States,
returned and reported
The army arrived at the Cimarron crossing of the Arkansas on the 20th,
and during the march of nearly thirty miles from their last camp,
a herd of about four hundred buffalo suddenly emerged from the
Arkansas, and broke through the long column. In an instant the
troops charged upon the surprised animals with guns, pistols, and
even drawn sabres, and many of the huge beasts were slaughtered
as they went dashing and thundering among the excited troopers and
infantrymen.
On the same date, the Army of the West crossed the Arkansas and camped
on Mexican soil about eight miles below Bent's Fort, and now the
utmost vigilance was exercised; for the troops had not only to keep
a sharp lookout for the Mexicans, but for the wily Comanches, in whose
country their camp was located. Strong picket and camp guards were
posted, and the animals turned loose to graze, guarded by a large
force. Notwithstanding the care taken to confine them within certain
limits, a pack of wolves rushed through the herd, and in an instant
it was stampeded, and there ensued a scene of the wildest confusion.
More than a thousand horses were dashing madly over the prairie,
their rage and fright increased at every jump by the lariats and
picket-pins which they had pulled up, and which lashed them like
so many whips. After desperate exertions by the troops, the majority
were recovered from thirty to fifty miles distant; nearly a hundred,
however, were absolutely lost and never seen again.
At this camp the troops were visited by the war chief of the Arapahoes,
who manifested great surprise at the big guns, and declared that
the Mexicans would not stand a moment before such terrible instruments
of death, but would escape to the mountains with the utmost despatch.
On the 1st of August a new camp near Bent's Fort was established,
from whence twenty men under Lieutenant de Courcy, with orders to
proceed through the mountains to the valley of Taos, to learn
something of the disposition and intentions of the people, and to
rejoin General Kearney on the road to Santa Fe. Lieutenant de Courcy,
in his official itinerary, relates the following anecdote:
We took three pack-mules laden with provisions, and as
we did not expect to be long absent, the men took no extra
clothing. Three days after we left the column our mules
fell down, and neither gentle means nor the points of our
sabres had the least effect in inducing them to rise.
Their term of service with Uncle Sam was out. "What's to
be done?" said the sergeant. "Dismount!" said I.
"Off with your shirts and drawers, men! tie up the sleeves
and legs, and each man bag one-twentieth part of the flour!"
Having done this, the bacon was distributed to the men also,
and tied to the cruppers of their saddles. Thus loaded,
we pushed on, without the slightest fear of our provision
train being cut off.
On the 15th of the month, the army neared Las Vegas; when two spies
who had been sent on in advance to see how matters stood returned
and reported that two thousand Mexicans were camped at the pass
a few miles beyond the village, where they intended to offer battle.
On the night of the 16th, while encamped on the Pecos River, near
the village of San Jose, the pickets captured a son of the Mexican
General Salezar, who was acting the r�le of a spy, and two other
soldiers of the Mexican army. Salezar was kept a close prisoner;
but the two privates were by order of General Kearney escorted
through the camp and shown the cannon, after which they were allowed
to depart, so that they might tell what they had seen. It was
learned afterward that they represented the American army as composed
of five thousand troops, and possessing so many cannons that they
were not able to count them.
When Armijo was certain that the Army of the West was really
approaching Santa Fe, he assembled seven thousand troops, part of them
well armed, and the remainder indifferently so. The Mexican general
had written a note to General Kearney the day before the capture
of the spies, saying that he would meet him on the following day.
Thus was New Mexico conquered with but little loss relatively.
For the further details of the movements of the Army of the West,
the reader is referred to general history, as this book, necessarily,
treats only of that portion of its march and the incidents connected
with it while travelling the Santa Fe Trail.
CHAPTER VIII.
THE VALLEY OF TAOS.
The reader will find on all maps, from the earliest published to the
latest issued by the local railroads, a town with the name of Taos,
which never had an existence. Fernandez de Taos is the chief city,
which has been known so long by the title of the valley that perhaps
the misnomer is excusable after many years' use.
The most tragic event in the history of the valley was the massacre
of the provisional governor of the Territory of New Mexico, with
a number of other Americans, shortly after its occupation by the
United States.
Midnight of the 24th of December was the time appointed for the
commencement of their revolutionary work, which was to be simultaneous
all over the country. The profoundest secrecy was to be preserved,
and the most influential men, whose ambition induced them to seek
preferment, were alone to be made acquainted with the plot. No woman
was to be privy to it, lest it should be divulged. The sound of
the church bell was to be the signal, and at midnight all were to
enter the Plaza at the same moment, seize the pieces of artillery,
and point them into the streets.
The time chosen for the assault was Christmas-eve, when the soldiers
and garrison would be indulging in wine and feasting, and scattered
about through the city at the fandangoes, not having their arms in
their hands. All the Americans, without distinction, throughout
the State, and such New Mexicans as had favoured the American
government and accepted office by appointment of General Kearney,
were to be massacred or driven from the country, and the conspirators
were to seize upon and occupy the government.
On the 19th, he was early roused from sleep by the populace, who,
with the aid of the Pueblos of Taos, were collected in front of his
dwelling striving to gain admittance. While they were effecting
an entrance, he, with an axe, cut through an adobe wall into another
house; and the Mexican wife of the occupant, a clever though shiftless
Canadian, hearing him, with all her strength rendered him assistance.
He retreated to a room, but, seeing no way of escaping from the
infuriated assailants, who fired upon him from a window, he spoke
to his weeping wife and trembling children, and, taking paper
from his pocket, endeavoured to write; but fast losing strength,
he commended them to God and his brothers and fell, pierced by a
ball from a Pueblo. Then rushing in and tearing off his gray-haired
scalp, the Indians bore it away in triumph.
On the bank of one of the creeks was a mill and distillery belonging
to an American named Turley, who did a thriving business. He possessed
herds of goats, and hogs innumerable; his barns were filled with
grain, his mill with flour, and his cellars with whiskey. He had
a Mexican wife and several children, and he bore the reputation of
being one of the most generous and kind-hearted of men. In times of
scarcity, no one ever sought his aid to be turned away empty-handed;
his granaries were always open to the hungry, and his purse to
the poor.
When on their road to Turley's, the Pueblos murdered two men, named
Harwood and Markhead. Markhead was one of the most successful
trappers and daring men among the old mountaineers. They were on
their way to Taos with their pack-animals laden with furs, when the
savages, meeting them, after stripping them of their goods, and
securing their arms by treachery, made them mount their mules under
pretence of conducting them to Taos, where they were to be given up
to the leaders of the insurrection. They had hardly proceeded
a mile when a Mexican rode up behind Harwood and discharged his gun
into his back; he called out to Markhead that he was murdered, and
fell to the ground dead.
Markhead, seeing that his own fate was sealed, made no struggle,
and was likewise shot in the back with several bullets. Both men
were then stripped naked, scalped, and horribly mutilated; their
bodies thrown into the brush to be devoured by the wolves.
The wild crowd of rebels rode on to Turley's mill. Turley had been
warned of the impending uprising, but had treated the report with
indifference, until one morning a man in his employ, who had been
despatched to Santa Fe with several mule-loads of whiskey a few days
before, made his appearance at the gate on horseback, and hastily
informing the inmates of the mill that the New Mexicans had risen and
massacred Governor Bent and other Americans, galloped off. Even then
Turley felt assured that he would not be molested; but at the
solicitation of his men, he agreed to close the gate of the yard
around which were the buildings of the mill and distillery, and make
preparations for defence.
A few hours afterward a large crowd of Mexicans and Pueblo Indians
made their appearance, all armed with guns and bows and arrows, and,
advancing with a white flag, summoned Turley to surrender his house
and the Americans in it, guaranteeing that his own life should be
saved, but that every other American in the valley must be destroyed;
that the governor and all the Americans at Fernandez had been killed,
and that not one was to be left alive in all New Mexico.
The enemy then drew off, and, after a short consultation, commenced
the attack. The first day they numbered about five hundred, but were
hourly reinforced by the arrival of parties of Indians from the more
distant Pueblos, and New Mexicans from Fernandez, La Canada, and
other places.
The building lay at the foot of a gradual slope in the sierra, which
was covered with cedar bushes. In front ran the stream of the
Arroyo Hondo, about twenty yards from one side of the square, and
the other side was broken ground which rose abruptly and formed
the bank of the ravine. In the rear and behind the still-house was
some garden ground enclosed by a small fence, into which a small
wicket-gate opened from the corral.
The Americans, on their part, were not idle; not a man but was an old
mountaineer, and each had his trusty rifle, with a good store of
ammunition. Whenever one of the besiegers exposed a hand's-breadth
of his person, a ball from an unerring barrel whistled. The windows
had been blockaded, loopholes having been left, and through these
a lively fire was maintained. Already several of the enemy had
bitten the dust, and parties were seen bearing off the wounded up
the banks of the Canada. Darkness came on, and during the night
a continual fire was kept up on the mill, whilst its defenders,
reserving their ammunition, kept their posts with stern and silent
determination. The night was spent in casting balls, cutting patches,
and completing the defences of the building. In the morning the fight
was renewed, and it was found that the Mexicans had effected a
lodgment in a part of the stables, which were separated from the
other portions of the building by an open space of a few feet.
The assailants, during the night, had sought to break down the wall,
and thus enter the main building, but the strength of the adobe and
logs of which it was composed resisted effectually all their attempts.
Those in the stable seemed anxious to regain the outside, for their
position was unavailable as a means of annoyance to the besieged, and
several had darted across the narrow space which divided it from the
other part of the building, which slightly projected, and behind
which they were out of the line of fire. As soon, however, as the
attention of the defenders was called to this point, the first man
who attempted to cross, who happened to be a Pueblo chief, was dropped
on the instant, and fell dead in the centre of the intervening space.
It appeared to be an object to recover the body, for an Indian
immediately dashed out to the fallen chief, and attempted to drag him
within the shelter of the wall. The rifle which covered the spot
again poured forth its deadly contents, and the Indian, springing
into the air, fell over the body of his chief. Another and another
met with a similar fate, and at last three rushed to the spot, and,
seizing the body by the legs and head, had already lifted it from the
ground, when three puffs of smoke blew from the barricaded windows,
followed by the sharp cracks of as many rifles, and the three daring
Indians were added to the pile of corpses which now covered the body
of the dead chief.
As yet the besieged had met with no casualties; but after the fall
of the seven Indians, the whole body of the assailants, with a shout
of rage, poured in a rattling volley, and two of the defenders fell
mortally wounded. One, shot through the loins, suffered great agony,
and was removed to the still-house, where he was laid on a large
pile of grain, as being the softest bed that could be found.
In the middle of the day the attack was renewed more fiercely than
before. The little garrison bravely stood to the defence of the mill,
never throwing away a shot, but firing coolly, and only when a fair
mark was presented to their unerring aim. Their ammunition, however,
was fast failing, and to add to the danger of their situation,
the enemy set fire to the mill, which blazed fiercely, and threatened
destruction to the whole building. Twice they succeeded in overcoming
the flames, and, while they were thus occupied, the Mexicans and
Indians charged into the corral, which was full of hogs and sheep,
and vented their cowardly rage upon the animals, spearing and shooting
all that came in their way. No sooner were the flames extinguished
in one place than they broke out more fiercely in another; and
as a successful defence was perfectly hopeless, and the numbers of
the assailants increased every moment, a council of war was held by
the survivors of the little garrison, when it was determined,
as soon as night approached, that every one should attempt to escape
as best he could.
Just at dusk a man named John Albert and another ran to the
wicket-gate which opened into a kind of enclosed space, in which were
a number of armed Mexicans. They both rushed out at the same moment,
discharging their rifles full in the face of the crowd. Albert,
in the confusion, threw himself under the fence, whence he saw his
companion shot down immediately, and heard his cries for mercy as
the cowards pierced him with knives and lances. He lay without motion
under the fence, and as soon as it was quite dark he crept over
the logs and ran up the mountain, travelled by day and night, and,
scarcely stopping or resting, reached the Greenhorn, almost dead
with hunger and fatigue. Turley himself succeeded in escaping from
the mill and in reaching the mountain unseen. Here he met a Mexican
mounted on a horse, who had been a most intimate friend of his for
many years. To this man Turley offered his watch for the use of the
horse, which was ten times more than it was worth, but was refused.
The inhuman wretch, however, affected pity and consideration for the
fugitive, and advised him to go to a certain place, where he would
bring or send him assistance; but on reaching the mill, which was
a mass of fire, he immediately informed the Mexicans of Turley's
place of concealment, whither a large party instantly proceeded and
shot him to death.
Two others escaped and reached Santa Fe in safety. The mill and
Turley's house were sacked and gutted, and all his hard-earned savings,
which were concealed in gold about the house, were discovered, and,
of course, seized upon by the victorious Mexicans.
The expedition set out on January 23d, and the next day
the Mexican army, under command of General Montoya as
commander-in-chief, aided by Generals Tafoya and Chavez,
was found occupying the heights commanding the road near
La Canada (Santa Cruz), with detachments in some strong
adobe houses near the river banks. The advance had been
seen shortly before at the rocky pass, on the road from
Pojuaque; and near there and before reaching the river, the
San Juan Pueblo Indians, who had joined the revolutionists
reluctantly and under a kind of compulsion, surrendered and
were disarmed by removing the locks from their guns.
On arriving at the Canada, Price ordered his howitzers to
the front and opened fire; and after a sharp cannonade,
directed an assault on the nearest houses by Aubrey's
battalion. Meanwhile an attempt by a Mexican detachment
to cut off the American baggage-wagons, which had not yet
come up, was frustrated by the activity of St. Vrain's
volunteers. A charge all along the line was then ordered
and handsomely executed; the houses, which, being of adobe,
had been practically so many ready-made forts, were
successively carried, and St. Vrain started in advance to
gain the Mexican rear. Seeing this manoeuvre, and fearing
its effects, the Mexicans retreated, leaving thirty-six
dead on the field. Among those killed was General Tafoya,
who bravely remained on the field after the remainder had
abandoned it, and was shot.
Early the next morning, the troops, now refreshed and ready
for the combat, advanced again to the Pueblo, but found
those within equally prepared. The story of the attack and
capture of this place is so interesting, both on account
of the meeting here of old and new systems of warfare--of
modern artillery with an aboriginal stronghold--and because
the precise localities can be distinguished by the modern
tourist from the description, that it seems best to insert
the official report as presented by Colonel Price.
Nothing could show more plainly how superior strong
earthworks are to many more ambitious structures of defence,
or more forcibly display the courage and heroism of those
who took part in the battle, or the signal bravery of the
accomplished Captain Burgwin which led to his untimely death.
Colonel Price writes:
One raw night, complaining of cold to his guard, wood was brought,
which he piled up in the middle of the room. Then mounting that,
and succeeding in breaking through the roof, he noiselessly crept
to the eaves, below which a sentinel, wrapped in a heavy cloak, paced
to and fro, to prevent his escape. He watched until the guard's back
was turned, then swung himself from the wall, and with as much ease
as possible, walked to a mess-fire, where his friends in waiting
supplied him with a pistol and clothing. When day broke, the town
of Fernandez lay far beneath him in the valley, and two days after
he was safe in our camp.
Court was daily in session; five more Indians and four Mexicans
were sentenced to be hung on the 30th of April. In the court room,
on the occasion of the trial of these nine prisoners, were Senora Bent
the late governor's wife, and Senora Boggs, giving their evidence in
regard to the massacre, of which they were eye-witnesses. Mrs. Bent
was quite handsome; a few years previously she must have been a
beautiful woman. The wife of the renowned Kit Carson also was in
attendance. Her style of beauty was of the haughty, heart-breaking
kind--such as would lead a man, with a glance of the eye, to risk
his life for one smile.
The court room was a small, oblong apartment, dimly lighted by two
narrow windows; a thin railing keeping the bystanders from contact
with the functionaries. The prisoners faced the judges, and the
three witnesses--Senoras Bent, Boggs, and Carson--were close to them
on a bench by the wall. When Mrs. Bent gave her testimony, the eyes
of the culprits were fixed sternly upon her; when she pointed out
the Indian who had killed the governor, not a muscle of the chief's
face twitched or betrayed agitation, though he was aware her evidence
settled his death warrant; he sat with lips gently closed, eyes
earnestly fixed on her, without a show of malice or hatred--a spectacle
of Indian fortitude, and of the severe mastery to which the emotions
can be subjected.
It was late one night in their camp on one of the many creeks in the
Blackfoot region, where they had been established for several weeks,
and Baptiste was on duty, guarding their meat and furs from the
incursions of a too inquisitive grizzly that had been prowling around,
and the impertinent investigations of the wolves. His attention was
attracted to something high up in a neighbouring tree, that seemed
restless, changing its position constantly like an animal of prey.
The Frenchman drew a bead upon it, and there came tumbling down at his
feet a dead savage, with his war-paint and other Indian paraphernalia
adorning his body. Baptiste was terribly hurt over the circumstance
of having killed an Indian, and it grieved him for a long time.
One day, a month after the incident, he was riding alone far away
from our party, and out of sound of their rifles as well, when a band
of Blackfeet discovered him and started for his scalp. He had no
possible chance for escape except by the endurance of his horse;
so a race for life began. He experienced no trouble in keeping out
of the way of their arrows--the Indians had no guns then--and hoped
to make camp before they could possibly wear out his horse. Just as
he was congratulating himself on his luck, right in front of him
there suddenly appeared a great gorge, and not daring to stop or to
turn to the right or left, the only thing to do was to make his animal
jump it. It was his only chance; it was death if he missed it, and
death by the most horrible torture if the Indians captured him.
So he drove his heels into his horse's sides, and essayed the
awful leap. His willing animal made a desperate effort to carry out
the desire of his daring rider, but the dizzy chasm was too wide,
and the pursuing savages saw both horse and the coveted white man
dash to the bottom of the frightful canyon together. Believing that
their hated enemy had eluded them forever, they rode back on their
trail, disgusted and chagrined, without even taking the trouble of
looking over the precipice to learn the fate of Baptiste.
The horse was instantly killed, and the Frenchman had both of his legs
badly broken. Far from camp, with the Indians in close proximity,
he did not dare discharge his rifle--the usual signal when a trapper
is lost or in danger--or to make any demonstration, so he was
compelled to lie there and suffer, hoping that his comrades,
missing him, would start out to search for him. They did so,
but more than twenty-four hours had elapsed before they found him,
as the bottom of the canyon was the last place they thought of.
Doctors, in the wild region where their camp was located, were as
impossible as angels; so his companions set his broken bones as well
as they could, while Baptiste suffered excruciating torture.
When they had completed their crude surgery, they improvised a litter
of poles, and rigged it on a couple of pack-mules, and thus carried
him around with them from camp to camp until he recovered--a period
extending over three months.
On Friday the 9th, the day for the execution, the sky was unspotted,
save by hastily fleeting clouds; and as the rising sun loomed over
the Taos Mountain, the bright rays, shining on the yellow and white
mud-houses, reflected cheerful hues, while the shades of the toppling
peaks, receding from the plain beneath, drew within themselves.
The humble valley wore an air of calm repose. The Plaza was deserted;
woe-begone burros drawled forth sacrilegious brays, as the warm
sunbeams roused them from hard, grassless ground, to scent their
breakfast among straw and bones.
"Hello, Met," said one of the party present, "these reatas are mighty
stiff--won't fit; eh, old feller?"
Along the sides of the room, leaning against the walls, were crowded
the poor wretches, miserable in dress, miserable in features,
miserable in feelings--a more disgusting collection of ragged, greasy,
unwashed prisoners were, probably, never before congregated within
so small a space as the jail of Taos.
About nine o'clock, active preparations were made for the execution,
and the soldiery mustered. Reverend padres in long black gowns,
with meek countenances, passed the sentinels, intent on spiritual
consolation, or the administration of the Blessed Sacrament.
The word was passed, at last, that the criminals were coming.
Eighteen soldiers received them at the gate, with their muskets at
"port arms"; the six abreast, with the sheriff on the right--
nine soldiers on each side.
The poor prisoners marched slowly, with downcast eyes, arms tied
behind, and bare heads, with the exception of white cotton caps
stuck on the back, to be pulled over the face as the last ceremony.
The roofs of the houses in the vicinity were covered with women and
children, to witness the first execution by hanging in the valley
of Taos, save that of Montojo, the insurgent leader. No men were
near; a few stood afar off, moodily looking on.
On the flat jail roof was placed a mountain howitzer, loaded and
ranging the gallows. Near was the complement of men to serve it,
one holding in his hand a lighted match. The two hundred and thirty
soldiers, less the eighteen forming the guard, were paraded in front
of the jail, and in sight of the gibbet, so as to secure the prisoners
awaiting trial. Lieutenant-Colonel Willock, on a handsome charger,
commanded a view of the whole.
When within fifteen paces of the gallows, the side-guard, filing off
to the right, formed, at regular distances from each other, three
sides of a hollow square; the mountaineers composed the fourth and
front side, in full view of the trembling prisoners, who marched up to
the tree under which was a government wagon, with two mules attached.
The driver and sheriff assisted them in, ranging them on a board,
placed across the hinder end, which maintained its balance, as they
were six--an even number--two on each extremity, and two in the middle.
The gallows was so narrow that they touched. The ropes, by reason
of their size and stiffness, despite the soaping given them, were
adjusted with difficulty; but through the indefatigable efforts
of the sheriff and a lieutenant who had accompanied him, all
preliminaries were arranged, although the blue uniform looked sadly
out of place on a hangman.
The sheriff and his assistant sat down; after a few moments of
intense expectation, the heart-wrung victims said a few words to
their people. Only one of them admitted he had committed murder
and deserved death. In their brief but earnest appeals, the words
"mi padre, mi madre"--"my father, my mother"--were prominent.
The one sentenced for treason showed a spirit of patriotism worthy
of the cause for which he died--the liberty of his country; and
instead of the cringing recantation of the others, his speech was
a firm asseveration of his own innocence, the unjustness of his trial,
and the arbitrary conduct of his murderers. As the cap was pulled
over his face, the last words he uttered between his teeth with
a scowl were "Carajo, los Americanos!"
At a word from the sheriff, the mules were started, and the wagon
drawn from under the tree. No fall was given, and their feet remained
on the board till the ropes drew tight. The bodies swayed back and
forth, and while thus swinging, the hands of two came together with
a firm grasp till the muscles loosened in death.
While cutting a rope from one man's neck--for it was in a hard knot--
the owner, a government teamster standing by waiting, shouted angrily,
at the same time stepping forward:
"Hello there! don't cut that rope; I won't have anything to tie
my mules with."
CHAPTER IX.
FIRST OVERLAND MAIL.
On the summit of one of the highest plateaus bordering the Missouri
River, surrounded by a rich expanse of foliage, lies Independence,
the beautiful residence suburb of Kansas City, only ten miles distant.
Tradition tells that early in this century there were a few pioneers
camping at long distances from each other in the seemingly
interminable woods; in summer engaged in hunting the deer, elk, and
bear, and in winter in trapping. It is a well-known fact that
the Big Blue was once a favourite resort of the beaver, and that
even later their presence in great numbers attracted many a veteran
trapper to its waters.
Before that period the quaint old cities of far-off Mexico were
forbidden to foreign traders, excepting to the favoured few who were
successful in obtaining permits from the Spanish government. In 1821,
however, the rebellion of Iturbide crushed the power of the mother
country, and established the freedom of Mexico. The embargo upon
foreign trade was at once removed, and the Santa Fe Trail, for untold
ages only a simple trace across the continent, became the busy highway
of a relatively great commerce.
Independence was not only the principal outfitting point for the
Santa Fe traders, but also that of the great fur companies. That
powerful association used to send out larger pack-trains than any
other parties engaged in the traffic to the Rocky Mountains;
they also employed wagons drawn by mules, and loaded with goods for
the Indians with whom their agents bartered, which also on their
return trip transported the skins and pelts of animals procured from
the savages. The articles intended for the Indian trade were
always purchased in St. Louis, and usually shipped to Independence,
consigned to the firm of Aull and Company, who outfitted the traders
with mules and provisions, and in fact anything else required by them.
There were no packing houses in those days nearer than St. Louis,
and the bacon and beef used in the Santa Fe trade were furnished by
the farmers of the surrounding country, who killed their meat,
cured it, and transported it to the town where they sold it.
Their wheat was also ground at the local mills, and they brought
the flour to market, together with corn, dried fruit, beans, peas,
and kindred provisions used on the long route across the plains.
Independence very soon became the best market west of St. Louis for
cattle, mules, and wagons; the trade of which the place was the
acknowledged headquarters furnishing employment to several thousand
men, including the teamsters and packers on the Trail. The wages
paid varied from twenty-five to fifty dollars a month and rations.
The price charged for hauling freight to Santa Fe was ten dollars
a hundred pounds, each wagon earning from five to six hundred dollars
every trip, which was made in eighty or ninety days; some fast
caravans making quicker time.
The freight transported by the wagons was always very securely loaded;
each package had its contents plainly marked on the outside.
The wagons were heavily covered and tightly closed. Every man
belonging to the caravan was thoroughly armed, and ever on the alert
to repulse an attack by the Indians.
After the close of the war with Mexico, the freight business across
the plains increased to a wonderful degree. The possession of the
country by the United States gave a fresh impetus to the New Mexico
trade, and the traffic then began to be divided between Westport
and Kansas City. Independence lost control of the overland commerce
and Kansas City commenced its rapid growth. Then came the discovery
of gold in California, and this gave an increased business westward;
for thousands of men and their families crossed the plains and
the Rocky Mountains, seeking their fortunes in the new El Dorado.
The Old Trail was the highway of an enormous pilgrimage, and both
Independence and Kansas City became the initial point of a wonderful
emigration.
An overland mail was started from the busy town as early as 1849.
In an old copy of the Missouri _Commonwealth_, published there under
the date of July, 1850, which I found on file in the Kansas State
Historical Society, there is the following account of the first mail
stage westward:--
The old stage-coach days were times of Western romance and adventure,
and the stories told of that era of the border have a singular
fascination in this age of annihilation of distance.
Very few, if any, of the famous men who handled the "ribbons" in those
dangerous days of the slow journey across the great plains are among
the living; like the clumsy and forgotten coaches they drove,
they have themselves been mouldering into dust these many years.
In many places on the line of the Trail, where the hard hills have not
been subjected to the plough, the deep ruts cut by the lumbering
Concord coaches may yet be distinctly traced. Particularly are they
visible from the Atchison, Topeka, and Santa Fe track, as the cars
thunder rapidly toward the city of Great Bend, in Kansas, three miles
east of that town. Let the tourist as he crosses Walnut Creek look
out of his window toward the east at an angle of about thirty-five
degrees, and on the flint hills which slope gradually toward the
railroad, he will observe, very distinctly, the Old Trail, where it
once drew down from the divide to make the ford at the little stream.
The monthly stages started from each end of the route at the same time;
later the service was increased to once a week; after a while to
three times, until in the early '60's daily stages were run from both
ends of the route, and this was continued until the advent of the
railroad.
It required about two weeks to make the trip from the Missouri River
to Santa Fe, unless high water or a fight with the Indians made it
several days longer. The animals were changed every twenty miles
at first, but later, every ten, when faster time was made. What sleep
was taken could only be had while sitting bolt upright, because there
was no laying over; the stage continued on night and day until
Santa Fe was reached.
Who can ever forget those meals at the "stations," of which you were
obliged to partake or go hungry: biscuit hard enough to serve as
"round-shot," and a vile decoction called, through courtesy, coffee
--but God help the man who disputed it!
The trout have vacated the Pecos; the ranch is a ruin, and stands
in grim contrast with the old temple and church on the hill; and both
are monuments of civilizations that will never come again.
Weeds and sunflowers mark the once broad trail to the quaint Aztec
city, and silence reigns in the beautiful valley, save when broken
by the passage of "The Flyer" of the Atchison, Topeka, and Santa Fe
railway, as it struggles up the heavy grade of the Glorieta Mountains
a mile or more distant.
Nothing is more fatiguing than travelling for the first day and night
in a stage-coach; after that, however, one gets used to it and the
remainder of the journey is relatively comfortable.
The only way to alleviate the monotony of riding hour after hour
was to walk; occasionally this was rendered absolutely necessary
by some accident, such as breaking a wheel or axle, or when an animal
gave out before a station was reached. In such cases, however,
no deduction was made from the fare, that having been collected in
advance, so it cost you just as much whether you rode or walked.
You could exercise your will in the matter, but you must not lag
behind the coach; the savages were always watching for such derelicts,
and your hair was the forfeit!
In the worst years, when the Indians were most decidedly on the
war-trail, the government furnished an escort of soldiers from the
military posts; they generally rode in a six-mule army-wagon, and
were commanded by a sergeant or corporal; but in the early days,
before the army had concentrated at the various forts on the great
plains, the stage had to rely on the courage and fighting qualities
of its occupants, and the nerve and the good judgment of the driver.
If the latter understood his duty thoroughly and was familiar with
the methods of the savages, he always chose the cover of darkness
in which to travel in localities where the danger from Indians was
greater than elsewhere; for it is a rare thing in savage warfare
to attack at night. The early morning seemed to be their favourite
hour, when sleep oppresses most heavily; and then it was that the
utmost vigilance was demanded.
One of the most confusing things to the novice riding over the great
plains is the idea of distance; mile after mile is travelled on
the monotonous trail, with a range of hills or a low divide in
full sight, yet hours roll by and the objects seem no nearer than
when they were first observed. The reason for this seems to be that
every atom of vapour is eliminated from the air, leaving such an
absolute clearness of atmosphere, such an indescribable transparency
of space through which distant objects are seen, that they are
magnified and look nearer than they really are. Consequently,
the usual method of calculating distance and areas by the eye is ever
at fault until custom and familiarity force a new standard of measure.
Mirages, too, were of frequent occurrence on the great plains;
some of them wonderful examples of the refracting properties of light.
They assumed all manner of fantastic, curious shapes, sometimes
ludicrously distorting the landscape; objects, like a herd of buffalo
for instance, though forty miles away, would seem to be high in air,
often reversed, and immensely magnified in their proportions.
It usually happened that you either at once took a great liking for
your driver and conductor, or the reverse. Once, on a trip from
Kansas City, nearly a third of a century ago, when I and another man
were the only occupants of the coach, we entertained quite a friendly
feeling for our driver; he was a good-natured, jolly fellow, full of
anecdote and stories of the Trail, over which he had made more than
a hundred sometimes adventurous journeys.
When we arrived at the station at Plum Creek, the coach was a little
ahead of time, and the driver who was there to relieve ours commenced
to grumble at the idea of having to start out before the regular hour.
He found fault because we had come into the station so soon, and
swore he could drive where our man could not "drag a halter-chain,"
as he claimed in his boasting. We at once took a dislike to him,
and secretly wished that he would come to grief, in order to cure him
of his boasting. Sure enough, before we had gone half a mile from the
station he incontinently tumbled the coach over into a sandy arroya,
and we were delighted at the accident. Finding ourselves free from
any injury, we went to work and assisted him to right the coach--
no small task; but we took great delight in reminding him several
times of his ability to drive where our old friend could not "drag
a halter-chain." It was very dark; neither moon or star visible,
the whole heavens covered with an inky blackness of ominous clouds;
so he was not so much to be blamed after all.
The very next coach was attacked at the crossing of Cow Creek by
a band of Kiowas. The savages had followed the stage all that
afternoon, but remained out of sight until just at dark, when they
rushed over the low divide, and mounted on their ponies commenced
to circle around the coach, making the sand dunes resound with echoes
of their infernal yelling, and shaking their buffalo-robes to stampede
the mules, at the same time firing their guns at the men who were
in the coach, all of whom made a bold stand, but were rapidly getting
the worst of it, when fortunately a company of United States cavalry
came over the Trail from the west, and drove the savages off.
Two of the men in the coach were seriously wounded, and one of the
soldiers killed; but the Indian loss was never determined, as they
succeeded in carrying off both their dead and wounded.
Mr. W. H. Ryus, a friend of mine now residing in Kansas City, who was
a driver and messenger thirty-five years, and had many adventures,
told me the following incidents:
The Indian took us in, and the situation, too; and conducted
us into the presence of Satanta, who stood in the middle
of the great circle, facing the dancers. It was out on an
island in the stream; the chief stood very erect, and eyed
us closely for a few seconds, then the colonel told his
own name that the Indians had known him by when he was a boy.
Satanta gave one bound--he was at least ten feet from where
we were waiting--grasped the colonel's hand and excitedly
kissed him, then stood back for another instant, gave him
a second squeeze, offered his hand to me, which I,
of course, shook heartily, then he gazed at the man he had
known as a boy so many years ago, with a countenance
beaming with delight. I never saw any one, even among
the white race, manifest so much joy as the old chief did
over the visit of the colonel to his camp.
Colonel A. G. Boone had made a treaty with these same Indians in 1860,
and it was agreed that he should be their agent. It was done, and
the entire savage nations were restful and kindly disposed toward
the whites during his administration; any one could then cross the
plains without fear of molestation. In 1861, however, Judge Wright,
of Indiana, who was a member of Congress at the time, charged Colonel
Boone with disloyalty.[29] He succeeded in having him removed.
Early in the winter of the next year, a small caravan of eight or ten
wagons travelling to the Missouri River was overhauled at Nine Mile
Ridge, about fifty miles west of Fort Dodge, by a band of Indians,
who asked for something to eat. The teamsters, thinking them to be
hostile, believed it would be a good thing to kill one of them anyhow;
so they shot an inoffensive warrior, after which the train moved on
to its camp and the trouble began. Every man in the whole outfit,
with the exception of one teamster, who luckily got to the Arkansas
River and hid, was murdered, the animals all carried away, and the
wagons and contents destroyed by fire.
This foolish act by the master of the caravan was the cause of a
long war, causing hundreds of atrocious murders and the destruction
of a great deal of property along the whole Western frontier.
That fall, 1863, Mr. Ryus was the messenger or conductor in charge
of the coach running from Kansas City to Santa Fe. He said:
It then required a month to make the round trip, about
eighteen hundred miles. On account of the Indian war
we had to have an escort of soldiers to go through the most
dangerous portions of the Trail; and the caravans all
joined forces for mutual safety, besides having an escort.
Day after day the lumbering Concord coach rolled on, with nothing to
disturb the monotony of the vast prairies, until it had left them
far behind and crossed the Range into New Mexico. Just about dawn,
as the unsuspecting travellers were entering the "canyon of the
Canadian,"[30] and probably waking up from their long night's sleep,
a band of Indians, with blood-curdling yells and their terrific
war-whoop, rode down upon them.
At the next stage station the employees were anxiously waiting for
the arrival of the coach, and wondering what could have caused
the delay; for it was due there at noon on the day of the massacre.
Hour after hour passed, and at last they began to suspect that
something serious had occurred; they sat up all through the night
listening for the familiar rumbling of wheels, but still no stage.
At daylight next morning, determined to wait no longer, as they felt
satisfied that something out of the usual course had happened,
a party hurriedly mounted their horses and rode down the broad trail
leading to the canyon.
They could not be sure of the number of passengers the coach had
brought until the arrival of the next, as it would have a list of
those carried by its predecessor; but it would not be due for
several days. They naturally supposed, however, that the twelve dead
lying on the ground were its full complement.
Not waiting for the arrival of the next stage, they despatched a
messenger to the last station east that the one whose occupants
had been murdered had passed, and there learned the exact number
of passengers it had contained. Now they knew that Mrs. White,
her child, and the coloured nurse had been carried off into a
captivity worse than death; for no remains of a woman were found
with the others lying in the canyon.
The terrible news of the massacre was conveyed to Taos, where were
stationed several companies of the Second United States Dragoons,
commanded by Major William Greer; but as the weather had grown
intensely cold and stormy since the date of the massacre, it took
nearly a fortnight for the terrible story to reach there. The Major
acted promptly when appealed to to go after and punish the savages
concerned in the outrage, but several days more were lost in getting
an expedition ready for the field. It was still stormy while the
command was preparing for its work; but at last, one bright morning,
in a piercing cold wind, five troops of the dragoons, commanded by
Major Greer in person, left their comfortable quarters to attempt
the rescue of Mrs. White, her child, and nurse.
Kit Carson, "Uncle Dick" Wooten, Joaquin Leroux, and Tom Tobin were
the principal scouts and guides accompanying the expedition, having
volunteered their services to Major Greer, which he had gladly accepted.
The massacre having occurred three weeks before the command had
arrived at the canyon of the Canadian, and snow having fallen almost
continuously ever since, the ground was deeply covered, making it
almost impossible to find the trail of the savages leading out of
the gorge. No one knew where they had established their winter camp
--probably hundreds of miles distant on some tributary of the Canadian
far to the south.
The command followed up the trail discovered by the scouts for nearly
four hundred miles. Early one morning when that distance had been
rounded, and just as the men were about to break camp preparatory
to the day's march, Carson went out on a little reconnoissance on his
own account, as he had noticed a flock of ravens hovering in the air
when he first got out of his blankets at dawn, which was sufficient
indication to him that an Indian camp was located somewhere in the
vicinity; for that ominous bird is always to be found in the region
where the savages take up an abode, feeding upon the carcasses of
the many varieties of game killed for food. He had not proceeded
more than half a mile from the camp when he discovered two Indians
slowly riding over a low "divide," driving a herd of ponies before
them. The famous scout was then certain their village could not
be very far away. The savages did not observe him, as he took good
care they should not; so he returned quickly to where Major Greer
was standing by his camp-fire and reported the presence of a village
very close at hand.
The Major having sent for Tom Tobin and Uncle Dick Wooton, requested
them to go and find the exact location of the savages. These scouts
came back in less than half an hour, and reported a large number
of teepees in a thick grove of timber a mile away.
Never were a body of men more enraged. Carson gave vent to his wrath
in a series of elaborately carved English oaths, for which he was
noted when young; Leroux, whose naturally hot blood was roused,
swore at the Major in a curious mixture of bad French and worse
mountain dialect, and it appeared as if the battle would begin in the
ranks of the troops instead of those of the savages; for never was
a body of soldiers so disgusted at the act of any commanding officer.
This delay gave the Indians, who could be seen dodging about among
their lodges and preparing for a fight that was no longer a surprise,
time to hide their women and children, mount their ponies, and get
down into deep ravines, where the soldiers could not follow them.
While the Major was trying to convince his subordinates that his
course was the proper one, the Indians opened fire without any parley,
and it happened that at the first volley a bullet struck him in the
breast, but a suspender buckle deflected its course and he was not
seriously wounded.
The fate of the Apache chief, "White Wolf," who was the leader in
the outrages in the canyon of the Canadian, was fitting for his
devilish deeds. It was Lieutenant David Bell's fortune to avenge
the murder of Mrs. White and her family, and in an extraordinary
manner.[32] The action was really dramatic, or romantic; he was
on a scout with his company, which was stationed at Fort Union,
New Mexico, having about thirty men with him, and when near the canyon
of the Canadian they met about the same number of Indians. A parley
was in order at once, probably desired by the savages, who were
confronted with an equal number of troopers. Bell had assigned
the baggage-mules to the care of five or six of his command, and held
a mounted interview with the chief, who was no other than the infamous
White Wolf of the Jicarilla Apaches. As Bell approached, White Wolf
was standing in front of his Indians, who were on foot, all well armed
and in perfect line. Bell was in advance of his troopers, who were
about twenty paces from the Indians, exactly equal in number and
extent of line; both parties were prepared to use firearms.
The parley was almost tediously long and the impending duel was
arranged, White Wolf being very bold and defiant.
At last the leaders exchanged shots, the chief sinking on one knee
and aiming his gun, Bell throwing his body forward and making his
horse rear. Both lines, by command, fired, following the example
of their superiors, the troopers, however, spurring forward over
their enemies. The warriors, or nearly all of them, threw themselves
on the ground, and several vertical wounds were received by horse
and rider. The dragoons turned short about, and again charged through
and over their enemies, the fire being continuous. As they turned
for a third charge, the surviving Indians were seen escaping to a
deep ravine, which, although only one or two hundred paces off,
had not previously been noticed. A number of the savages thus
escaped, the troopers having to pull up at the brink, but sending
a volley after the descending fugitives.
The war chief of the Kiowa nation in the early '50's was Satank,
a most unmitigated villain; cruel and heartless as any savage that
ever robbed a stage-coach or wrenched off the hair of a helpless woman.
After serving a dozen or more years with a record for hellish
atrocities equalled by few of his compeers, he was deposed for alleged
cowardice, as his warriors claimed, under the following circumstances:--
Some time before Satank lost his office of chief, there was living
on Cow Creek, in a rude adobe building, a man who was ostensibly
an Indian trader, but whose traffic, in reality, consisted in selling
whiskey to the Indians, and consequently the United States troops
were always after him. He was obliged to cache his liquor in every
conceivable manner so that the soldiers should not discover it, and,
of course, he dreaded the incursions of the troops much more than
he did raids of the Indian marauders that were constantly on the Trail.
Satank and this illicit trader, whose name was Peacock, were great
chums. One day while they were indulging in a general good time
over sundry drinks of most villanous liquor, Satank said to Peacock:
"Peacock, I want you to write me a letter; a real nice one, that
I can show to the wagon-bosses on the Trail, and get all the 'chuck'
I want. Tell them I am Satank, the great chief of the Kiowas, and
for them to treat me the best they know how."
"All right, Satank," said Peacock; "I'll do so." Peacock then sat
down and wrote the following epistle:--
The next morning at daylight, Satank called for some of his braves
and with them rode out to Peacock's ranch. Arriving there, he called
out to Peacock, who had not yet risen: "Peacock, get up, the soldiers
are coming!" It was a warning which the illicit trader quickly
obeyed, and running out of the building with his field-glass in his
hand, he started for his lookout, but while he was ascending the
ladder with his back to Satank the latter shot him full of holes,
saying, as he did so: "There, Peacock, I guess you won't write any
more letters."
His warriors then entered the building and killed every man in it,
save one who had been gored by a buffalo bull the day before, and
who was lying in a room all by himself. He was saved by the fact
that the Indian has a holy dread of small-pox, and will never enter
an apartment where sick men lie, fearing they may have the awful
disease.
Satanta (White Bear) was the most efficient and dreaded chief of all
who have ever been at the head of the Kiowa nation. Ever restlessly
active in ordering or conducting merciless forays against an exposed
frontier, he was the very incarnation of deviltry in his determined
hatred of the whites, and his constant warfare against civilization.
His friendship was only dissembling. During all the time that
General Sheridan was making his preparations for his intended winter
campaign against the allied plains tribes, Satanta made frequent
visits to the military posts, ostensibly to show the officers that
he was heartily for peace, but really to inform himself of what was
going on.
Satanta was sent for by the commission as the leading spirit of the
formidable Kiowa nation. When he entered the building at Fort Dodge
in which daily sessions were held, he was told by the president to
speak his mind without any reservation; to withhold nothing, but to
truthfully relate what his tribe had to complain of on the part of
the whites. The old rascal grew very pathetic as he warmed up to
his subject. He declared that he had no desire to kill the white
settlers or emigrants crossing the plains, but that those who came
and lived on the land of his tribe ruthlessly slaughtered the buffalo,
allowing their carcasses to rot on the prairie; killing them merely
for the amusement it afforded them, while the Indian only killed
when necessity demanded. He also stated that the white hunters
set out fires, destroying the grass, and causing the tribe's horses
to starve to death as well as the buffalo; that they cut down and
otherwise destroyed the timber on the margins of the streams, making
large fires of it, while the Indian was satisfied to cook his food
with a few dry and dead limbs. "Only the other day," said he,
"I picked up a little switch on the Trail, and it made my heart bleed
to think that so small a green branch, ruthlessly torn out of the
ground and thoughtlessly destroyed by some white man, would in time
have grown into a stately tree for the use and benefit of my children
and grandchildren."
After the pow-wow had ended, and Satanta had got a few drinks of
red liquor into him, his real, savage nature asserted itself, and
he said to the interpreter at the settler's store: "Now didn't I
give it to those white men who came from the Great Father? Didn't I
do it in fine style? Why, I drew tears from their eyes! The switch
I saw on the Trail made my heart glad instead of sad; for I new there
was a tenderfoot ahead of me, because an old plainsman or hunter
would never have carried anything but a good quirt or a pair of spurs.
So I said to my warriors, 'Come on, boys; we've got him!' and when
we came in sight, after we had followed him closely on the dead run,
he threw away his rifle and held tightly on to his hat for fear
he should lose it!"
Another time when Satanta had remained at Fort Dodge for a very long
period and had worn out his welcome, so that no one would give him
anything to drink, he went to the quarters of his old friend,
Bill Bennett, the overland stage agent, and begged him to give him
some liquor. Bill was mixing a bottle of medicine to drench a
sick mule. The moment he set the bottle down to do something else,
Satanta seized it off the ground and drank most of the liquid before
quitting. Of course, it made the old savage dreadfully sick as well
as angry. He then started for a certain officer's quarters and again
begged for something to cure him of the effects of the former dose;
the officer refused, but Satanta persisted in his importunities;
he would not leave without it. After a while, the officer went to
a closet and took a swallow of the most nauseating medicine, placing
the bottle back on its shelf. Satanta watched his chance, and,
as soon as the officer left the room, he snatched the bottle out of
the closet and drank its contents without stopping to breathe.
It was, of course, a worse dose than the horse-medicine. The next
day, very early in the morning, he assembled a number of his warriors,
crossed the Arkansas, and went south to his village. Before leaving,
however, he burnt all of the government contractor's hay on the bank
of the river opposite the post. He then continued on to Crooked Creek,
where he murdered three wood-choppers, all of which, he said afterward,
he did in revenge for the attempt to poison him at Fort Dodge.
Big Tree was another Kiowa chief. He was the ally and close friend
of Satanta, and one of the most daring and active of his warriors.
The sagacity and bravery of these two savages would have been a credit
to that of the most famous warriors of the old French and Indian Wars.
Both were at last taken, tried, and sent to the Texas penitentiary
for life. Satanta was eventually pardoned; but before he was made
aware of the efforts that were being taken for his release,
he attempted to escape, and, in jumping from a window, fell and broke
his neck. His pardon arrived the next morning. Big Tree, through
the work of the sentimentalists of Washington, was set free and sent
to the Kiowa Reservation--near Fort Sill in the Indian Territory.
The next most audacious and terrible scourge of the plains was
"Ta-ne-on-koe" (Kicking Bird). He was a great warrior of the Kiowas,
and was the chief actor in some of the bloodiest raids on the Kansas
frontier in the history of its troublous times.
One of his captures was that of a Miss Morgan and Mrs. White.
They were finally rescued from the savages by General Custer, under
the following circumstances: Custer, who was advancing with his
column of invincible cavalrymen--the famous Seventh United States--
in search of the two unfortunate women, had arrived near the head
waters of one of the tributaries of the Washita, and, with only
his guide and interpreter, was far in advance of the column, when,
on reaching the summit of an isolated bluff, they suddenly saw a
village of the Kiowas, which turned out to be that of Kicking Bird,
whose handsome lodge was easily distinguishable from the rest.
Without waiting for his command, the general and his guide rode
boldly to the lodge of the great chief, and both dismounted, holding
cocked revolvers in their hands; Custer presented his at Kicking
Bird's head. In the meantime, Custer's column of troopers, whom
the Kiowas had good reason to remember for their bravery in many
a hard-fought battle, came in full view of the astonished village.
This threw the startled savages into the utmost consternation, but
the warriors were held in check by signs from Kicking Bird. As the
cavalry drew nearer, General Custer demanded the immediate release
of the white women. Their presence in the village was at first
denied by the lying chief, and not until he had been led to the limb
of a huge cottonwood tree near the lodge, with a rope around his neck,
did he acknowledge that he held the women and consent to give them up.
In June, 1867, a year before the breaking out of the great Indian war
on the central plains, the whole tribe of Kiowas, led by him,
assembled at Fort Larned. He was the cynosure of all eyes, as he
was without question one of the noblest-looking savages ever seen
on the plains. On that occasion he wore the full uniform of a
major-general of the United States army. He was as correctly moulded
as a statue when on horseback, and when mounted on his magnificent
charger the morning he rode out with General Hancock to visit the
immense Indian camp a few miles above the fort on Pawnee Fork,
it would have been a difficult task to have determined which was
the finer-looking man.
After Kicking Bird had abandoned his wicked career, he was regarded
by every army officer with whom he had a personal acquaintance as
a remarkably good Indian; for he really made the most strenuous
efforts to initiate his tribe into the idea that it was best for it
to follow the white man's road. He argued with them that the time
was very near when there would no longer be any region where the
Indians could live as they had been doing, depending on the buffalo
and other game for the sustenance of their families; they must adapt
themselves to the methods of their conquerors.
In that raid Kicking Bird carried off vast herds of horses and a
large number of scalps. Although his tribe fairly worshipped him,
he was not at all satisfied with himself. He could look into the
future as well as any one, and from that time on to his tragic death
he laboured most zealously and earnestly in connection with the
Indian agents to bring his people to live on the reservation which
the government had established for them in the Territory.
One day, long after these occurrences, a friend of mine was in the
sutler's store at Fort Sill. In there was a stranger talking to
Mr. Fox, the agent of the Indians. Soon Kicking Bird entered the
establishment, and the stranger asked Mr. Fox who that fine-looking
Indian was. He was told, and then he begged the agent to say to him
that he would like to have a talk with him; for he it was who led
that famous raid into Texas. "I never saw better generalship in the
field in all my experience. He had three horses killed under him.
I was the surgeon of the rangers and was, of course, in the fight."[35]
When Kicking Bird was told that the Texas doctor desired to talk with
him, he replied with great dignity that he did not want to revive
those troublous times. "Tell him, though," said Kicking Bird, "that
was my last raid against the whites; that I am a changed man."
The President of the United States sent for Kicking Bird to come to
Washington, and to bring with him such other influential Indians as
he thought might aid in inducing the Kiowas to cease their continual
raiding on the border of Texas.
In due time Kicking Bird left for the capital, taking with him
Lone Wolf, Big Bow, and Sun Boy of the Kiowas, together with several
of the head men of the Comanches. When the deputation of savages
arrived in Washington, it was received at the presidential mansion
by the chief magistrate himself. So much more attention was given
to Kicking Bird than to the others, that they became very jealous,
particularly when the President announced to them the appointment
of Kicking Bird as the head chief of the tribe.[36] But Lone Wolf
would never recognize his authority, constantly urging the young men
to raid the settlements. Lone Wolf was a genuine savage, without one
redeeming trait, and his hatred of the white race was unparalleled
in its intensity. He was never known to smile. No other Indian can
show such a record of horrible massacres as he is responsible for.
His orders were rigidly obeyed, for he brooked no disobedience on
the part of his warriors.
After the departure of the condemned savages, the feeling in the tribe
against Kicking Bird increased to an alarming extent. Several times
the most incensed warriors tried to kill him by shooting at him from
an ambush. After he became fully aware that his life was in danger,
he never left his lodge without his carbine. He was as brave as a
lion, fearing none of the members of Lone Wolf's band; but he often
said it was only a question of a short time when he would be gotten
rid of; he did not allow the matter, however, to worry him in the
least, saying that he was conscious he had done his duty by his tribe
and the Great Father.
In a bend of Cash Creek, about half a mile below the mill, about half
a dozen of the Kiowas had their lodges, that of their chief being
among them. At ten o'clock one Monday in June, 1876, Mr. Haworth,
the agent, came in haste to the shops, called the master mechanic,
Mr. Wykes, out, told him to jump into the carriage quickly; that
Kicking Bird was dead.
When they arrived at the home of the great chief, sure enough he was
dead, and some of the women were engaged in folding his body in robes.
Other squaws were cutting themselves in a terrible manner, as is their
custom when a relative dies, and were also breaking everything
breakable about the lodge. Kicking Bird had always been scrupulously
clean and neat in the care of his home; it was adorned with the most
beautifully dressed buffalo robes and the finest furs, while the floor
was covered with matting.
It seems that Kicking Bird, after visiting Mr. Wykes that morning,
went immediately to his lodge, and sat down to eat something, but
just as he had finished a cup of coffee, he fell over, dead. He had
in his service a Mexican woman, and she had been bribed to poison him.
An expensive coffin was made at the agency for his remains, fashioned
out of the finest black walnut to be found in the country where that
timber grows to such a luxuriant extent. It was eight feet long
and four feet deep, but even then it did not hold one-half of his
effects, which were, according to the savage custom, interred with
his body.
The cries and lamentations of the warriors and women of his band
were heartrending; such a manifestation of grief was never before
witnessed at the agency. A handsome fence was erected around his
grave, in the cemetery at Fort Sill, and the government ordered
a beautiful marble monument to be raised over it; but I do not know
whether it was ever done.
Kicking Bird was only forty years old at the time of his sudden
taking off, and was very wealthy for an Indian. He knew the uses
of money and was a careful saver of it. A great roll of greenbacks
was placed in his coffin, and that fact having leaked out, it was
rumoured that his grave was robbed; but the story may not have been
true.
One of the greatest terrors of the Old Santa Fe Trail was the
half-breed Indian desperado Charles Bent. His mother was a Cheyenne
squaw, and his father the famous trader, Colonel Bent. He was born
at the base of the Rocky Mountains, and at a very early age placed
in one of the best schools that St. Louis afforded. His venerable
sire, with only a limited education himself, was determined that
his boy should profit by the culture and refinement of civilization,
so he was not allowed to return to his mountain home at Bent's Fort,
and the savage conditions under which he was born, until he had
attained his majority. He then spoke no language but English.
His mother died while he was absent at school, and his father
continued to live at the old fort, where Charles, after he had
reached the age of twenty-one, joined him.
As soon as the educated half-breed set his foot on his native heath
he readily found enough ambitious young bucks of his own age who
were willing to look on him as their leader. They loved him, too,
if such a thing were possible, as Fra Diavolo was loved by his wild
followers. His band was known as the "Dog-Soldiers"; a sort of a
semi-military organization, consisting of the most daring,
blood-thirsty young men of the tribe; and sometimes "squaw-men,"
that is, renegade white men married to squaws, attached themselves
to his command of cut-throats.
CHAPTER XI.
LA GLORIETA.
New Mexico, at the breaking out of the Civil War, was abandoned by
the government at Washington, or at least so overlooked that the
charge of neglect was merited. In the report of the committee on
the Conduct of the War, under date of July 15, 1862, Brevet
Lieutenant-Colonel B. S. Roberts of the regular army, major of the
Third Cavalry, who was stationed in the Territory in 1861, says:
It appears to me to be the determination of General Thomas[37]
not to acknowledge the service of the officers who saved
the Territory of New Mexico; and the utter neglect of the
adjutant-general's department for the last year to
communicate in any way with the commanding officer of the
department of New Mexico, or to answer his urgent appeals
for reinforcements, for money and other supplies, in
connection with his repudiation of the services of all the
army there, convinces me that he is not gratified at their
loyalty and their success in saving that Territory to
the Union.
But the conspirators had reckoned without their host; they imagined
the native Mexicans would eagerly accept their overtures, and readily
support the Southern Confederacy. Mr. Davis and his coadjutors had
evidently forgotten the effect of the Texas Santa Fe Expedition,
in 1841, upon the people of the Province of New Mexico; but the
natives themselves had not. Besides the loyalty of the Mexicans,
there was a factor which the Confederate leaders had failed to
consider, which was that the majority of the American pioneers had
come from loyal States.
At the same time Colorado was girding on her armour for the impending
conflict. The governor of the prosperous Territory was William Gilpin,
an old army officer, who had spent a large part of his life on the
frontier, and had accompanied Colonel Doniphan, as major of his
regiment, across the plains, on the expedition to New Mexico in 1846.
The commanding general knew well the plans of the rebels as to their
intended occupation of New Mexico, and, notwithstanding the weakness
of his force, determined to frustrate them if within the limits of
possibility. To that end he concentrated his little army, comprising
a thousand regular soldiers, the two regiments of New Mexico
volunteers, two companies of Colorado troops, and a portion of the
territorial militia, at Fort Craig, on the Rio Grande, to await
the approach of the Confederate troops, under the command of
General H. H. Sibley, an old regular army officer, a native of
Louisiana, and the inventor of the comfortable tent named after him.
Valverde was lost to the Union troops, but never did men fight more
valiantly, with the exception of a few who did not act the part of
the true soldier. The brave M'Rae mounted one of the guns of his
battery, choosing to die rather than surrender.
From Santa Fe to Fort Union, where the arsenal was located, the road
runs through the deep, rocky gorge known as Apache Canyon. It is
one of the wildest spots in the mountains, the walls on each side
rising from one to two thousand feet above the Trail, which is within
the range of ordinary cannon from every point, and in many places
of point-blank rifle-shot. Granite rocks and sands abound, and the
hills are covered with long-leafed pine. It is a gateway which,
in the hands of a skilful engineer and one hundred resolute men,
can be made perfectly impregnable.
About ten o'clock, while making his way through the scrub
pine and cedar brush in the mountains, Major Chivington
and his command heard cannonading to their right, and
were thereby apprised that Colonel Slough and his men
had met the enemy. About twelve o'clock he arrived with
his men on the summit of the mountain which overlooked
the enemy's supply wagons, which had been left in the
charge of a strong guard with one piece of artillery mounted
on an elevation commanding the camp and mouth of the canyon.
With great difficulty Chivington descended the precipitous
mountain, charged, took, and spiked the gun, ran together
the enemy's supply wagons of commissary, quartermaster,
and ordnance stores, set them on fire, blew and burnt
them up, bayoneted his mules in corral, took the guard
prisoners and reascended the mountain, where about dark
he was met by Lieutenant Cobb, aide-de-camp on Colonel
Slough's staff, with the information that Slough and his
men had been defeated and had fallen back to Kosloskie's.
Upon the supposition that this information was correct,
Chivington, under the guidance of a French Catholic priest,
in the intensest darkness, with great difficulty made
his way with his command through the mountains without
a road or trail, and joined Colonel Slough about midnight.
CHAPTER XII.[41]
THE BUFFALO.
When I look back only twenty-five years, and recall the fact that
they roamed in immense numbers even then, as far east as Fort Harker,
in Central Kansas, a little more than two hundred miles from the
Missouri River, I ask myself, "Have they all disappeared?"
An idea may be formed of how many buffalo were killed from 1868 to
1881, a period of only thirteen years, during which time they were
indiscriminately slaughtered for their hides. In Kansas alone
there was paid out, between the dates specified, two million five
hundred thousand dollars for their bones gathered on the prairies,
to be utilized by the various carbon works of the country, principally
in St. Louis. It required about one hundred carcasses to make one
ton of bones, the price paid averaging eight dollars a ton; so the
above-quoted enormous sum represented the skeletons of over thirty-one
millions of buffalo.[42] These figures may appear preposterous to
readers not familiar with the great plains a third of a century ago;
but to those who have seen the prairie black from horizon to horizon
with the shaggy monsters, they are not so. In the autumn of 1868
I rode with Generals Sheridan, Custer, Sully, and others, for three
consecutive days, through one continuous herd, which must have
contained millions. In the spring of 1869 the train on the Kansas
Pacific Railroad was delayed at a point between Forts Harker and
Hays, from nine o'clock in the morning until five in the afternoon,
in consequence of the passage of an immense herd of buffalo across
the track. On each side of us, and to the west as far as we could
see, our vision was only limited by the extended horizon of the flat
prairie, and the whole vast area was black with the surging mass
of affrighted buffaloes as they rushed onward to the south.
In 1868 the Union Pacific Railroad and its branch in Kansas was nearly
completed across the plains to the foothills of the Rocky Mountains,
the western limit of the buffalo range, and that year witnessed
the beginning of the wholesale and wanton slaughter of the great
ruminants, which ended only with their practical extinction seventeen
years afterward. The causes of this hecatomb of animals on the
great plains were the incursion of regular hunters into the region,
for the hides of the buffalo, and the crowds of tourists who crossed
the continent for the mere pleasure and novelty of the trip.
The latter class heartlessly killed for the excitement of the
new experience as they rode along in the cars at a low rate of speed,
often never touching a particle of the flesh of their victims,
or possessing themselves of a single robe. The former, numbering
hundreds of old frontiersmen, all expert shots, with thousands of
novices, the pioneer settlers on the public domain, just opened
under the various land laws, from beyond the Platte to far south
of the Arkansas, within transporting distance of two railroads,
day after day for years made it a lucrative business to kill for
the robes alone, a market for which had suddenly sprung up all over
the country.
Sometimes when far away from camp a blizzard would come down from
the north in all its fury without ten minutes' warning, and in a
few seconds the air, full of blinding snow, precluded the possibility
of finding their shelter, an attempt at which would only result
in an aimless circular march on the prairie. On such occasions,
to keep from perishing by the intense cold, they would kill a buffalo,
and, taking out its viscera, creep inside the huge cavity, enough
animal heat being retained until the storm had sufficiently abated
for them to proceed with safety to their camp.
Kit swam around for some time, carefully guarded by the bull, until
his position was observed by one of his companions, who attacked
the belligerent animal successfully with a forty-four slug, and then
Kit crawled out and--skinned the enemy!
He once killed five buffaloes during a single race, and used but
four balls, having dismounted and cut the bullet from the wound
of the fourth, and thus continued the chase. He it was, too, who
established his reputation as a famous hunter by shooting a buffalo
cow during an impetuous race down a steep hill, discharging his rifle
just as the animal was leaping on one of the low cedars peculiar
to the region. The ball struck a vital spot, and the dead cow
remained in the jagged branches. The Indians who were with him
on that hunt looked upon the circumstance as something beyond their
comprehension, and insisted that Kit should leave the carcass in
the tree as "Big Medicine." Katzatoa (Smoked Shield), a celebrated
chief of the Kiowas many years ago, who was over seven feet tall,
never mounted a horse when hunting the buffalo; he always ran after
them on foot and killed them with his lance.
"Yes; but come along with us, as we are going to kill them
more for pleasure than anything else. All we want are the
tongues and a piece of tenderloin, and you may have all
that is left," said the generous man.
There were eleven buffaloes in the herd, and they were not
more than a mile ahead of us. The officers dashed on as if
they had a sure thing on killing them all before I could
come up with them; but I had noticed that the herd was
making toward the creek for water, and as I knew buffalo
nature, I was perfectly aware that it would be difficult
to turn them from their direct course. Thereupon, I started
toward the creek to head them off, while the officers
came up in the rear and gave chase.
An officer of the old regular army told me many years ago that in
crossing the plains a herd of buffalo were fired at by a twelve-pound
howitzer, the ball of which wounded and stunned an immense bull.
Nevertheless, heedless of a hundred shots that had been fired at him,
and of a bulldog belonging to one of the officers, which had fastened
himself to his lips, the enraged beast charged upon the whole troop
of dragoons, and tossed one of the horses like a feather. Bull,
horse, and rider all fell in a heap. Before the dust cleared away,
the trooper, who had hung for a moment to one of the bull's horns
by his waistband, crawled out safe, while the horse got a ball from
a rifle through his neck while in the air and two great rips in his
flank from the bull.
In 1839 Kit Carson and Hobbs were trapping with a party on the
Arkansas River, not far from Bent's Fort. Among the trappers was
a green Irishman, named O'Neil, who was quite anxious to become
proficient in hunting, and it was not long before he received his
first lesson. Every man who went out of camp after game was expected
to bring in "meat" of some kind. O'Neil said that he would agree
to the terms, and was ready one evening to start out on his first
hunt alone. He picked up his rifle and stalked after a small herd
of buffalo in plain sight on the prairie not more than five or six
hundred yards from camp.
All the trappers who were not engaged in setting their traps or
cooking supper were watching O'Neil. Presently they heard the report
of his rifle, and shortly after he came running into camp, bareheaded,
without his gun, and with a buffalo bull close upon his heels;
both going at full speed, and the Irishman shouting like a madman,--
"Here we come, by jabers. Stop us! For the love of God, stop us!"
Just as they came in among the tents, with the bull not more than
six feet in the rear of O'Neil, who was frightened out of his wits
and puffing like a locomotive, his foot caught in a tent-rope, and
over he went into a puddle of water head foremost, and in his fall
capsized several camp-kettles, some of which contained the trappers'
supper. But the buffalo did not escape so easily; for Hobbs and
Kit Carson jumped for their rifles, and dropped the animal before
he had done any further damage.
A great herd of buffaloes on the plains in the early days, when one
could approach near enough without disturbing it to quietly watch
its organization and the apparent discipline which its leaders seemed
to exact, was a very curious sight. Among the striking features
of the spectacle was the apparently uniform manner in which the
immense mass of shaggy animals moved; there was constancy of action
indicating a degree of intelligence to be found only in the most
intelligent of the brute creation. Frequently the single herd was
broken up into many smaller ones, that travelled relatively close
together, each led by an independent master. Perhaps a few rods
only marked the dividing-line between them, but it was always
unmistakably plain, and each moved synchronously in the direction
in which all were going.
The leadership of a herd was attained only by hard struggles for the
place; once reached, however, the victor was immediately recognized,
and kept his authority until some new aspirant overcame him, or he
became superannuated and was driven out of the herd to meet his
inevitable fate, a prey to those ghouls of the desert, the gray wolves.
Like an army, a herd of buffaloes put out vedettes to give the alarm
in case anything beyond the ordinary occurred. These sentinels were
always to be seen in groups of four, five, or even six, at some
distance from the main body. When they perceived something approaching
that the herd should beware of or get away from, they started on
a run directly for the centre of the great mass of their peacefully
grazing congeners. Meanwhile, the young bulls were on duty as
sentinels on the edge of the main herd watching the vedettes;
the moment the latter made for the centre, the former raised their
heads, and in the peculiar manner of their species gazed all around
and sniffed the air as if they could smell both the direction and
source of the impending danger. Should there be something which their
instinct told them to guard against, the leader took his position
in front, the cows and calves crowded in the centre, while the rest
of the males gathered on the flanks and in the rear, indicating
a gallantry that might be emulated at times by the genus homo.
Many an old trapper and hunter's life has been saved by following
a buffalo-trail when he was suffering from thirst. The buffalo-wallows
retain usually a great quantity of water, and they have often saved
the lives of whole companies of cavalry, both men and horses.
The buffalo bull that has outlived his usefulness is one of the most
pitiable objects in the whole range of natural history. Old age
has probably been decided in the economy of buffalo life as the
unpardonable sin. Abandoned to his fate, he may be discovered,
in his dreary isolation, near some stream or lake, where it does not
tax him too severely to find good grass; for he is now feeble, and
exertion an impossibility. In this new stage of his existence he
seems to have completely lost his courage. Frightened at his own
shadow, or the rustling of a leaf, he is the very incarnation of
nervousness and suspicion. Gregarious in his habits from birth,
solitude, foreign to his whole nature, has changed him into a new
creature; and his inherent terror of the most trivial things is
intensified to such a degree that if a man were compelled to undergo
such constant alarm, it would probably drive him insane in less than
a week. Nobody ever saw one of these miserable and helplessly
forlorn creatures dying a natural death, or ever heard of such an
occurrence. The cowardly coyote and the gray wolf had already
marked him for their own; and they rarely missed their calculations.
After contemplating his antagonists for a few moments, the bull made
a dash at the nearest wolf, tumbling him howling over the silent
prairie; but while this diversion was going on in front, the remainder
of the pack started for his hind legs, to hamstring him. Upon this
the poor brute turned to the point of attack only to receive a
repetition of it in the same vulnerable place by the wolves, who had
as quickly turned also and fastened themselves on his heels again.
His hind quarters now streamed with blood and he began to show signs
of great physical weakness. He did not dare to lie down; that would
have been instantly fatal. By this time he had killed three of the
wolves or so maimed them that they were entirely out of the fight.
At this juncture the suffering animal was mercifully shot, and the
wolves allowed to batten on his thin and tough carcass.
One morning, when the command had just settled itself in careless
repose on the short grass of the apparently interminable prairie
at the first halt of the day's march, a short distance beyond
Fort Larned, a strange noise, like the low muttering of thunder
below the horizon, greeted the ears of the little army.
All were startled by the ominous sound, unlike anything they had
heard before on their dreary tour. The general ordered his scouts
out to learn the cause; could it be Indians? Every eye was strained
for something out of the ordinary. Even the horses of the officers
and the mules of the supply-train were infected by something that
seemed impending; they grew restless, stamped the earth, and vainly
essayed to stampede, but were prevented by their hobbles and
picket-pins.
Presently one of the scouts returned from over the divide, and
reported to the general that an immense herd of buffalo was tearing
down toward the Trail, and from the great clouds of dust they raised,
which obscured the horizon, there must have been ten thousand of them.
The roar wafted to the command, and which seemed so mysterious,
was made by their hoofs as they rattled over the dry prairie.
The sound increased in volume rapidly, and soon a black, surging mass
was discovered bearing right down on the Trail. Behind it could be
seen a cavalcade of about five hundred Cheyennes, Comanches, and
Kiowas, who had maddened the shaggy brutes, hoping to capture the
train without an attack by forcing the frightened animals to overrun
the command.
The rage of the savages was evident when they saw that their attempt
to annihilate the troops had failed, and they rode off sullenly into
the sand hills, as the number of soldiers was too great for them
to think of charging.
He says:
The country was alive with buffalo, and besides killing
quite a number we had a rare day for sport. One morning
we pulled out of camp, and the train was strung out to a
considerable length along the Trail, which ran near the foot
of the sand hills, two miles from the river. Between the
road and the river we saw a large herd of buffalo grazing
quietly, they having been down to the stream to drink.
Just at this time we observed a party of returning
Californians coming from the west. They, too, noticed
the buffalo herd, and in another moment they were dashing
down upon them, urging their horses to their greatest speed.
The buffalo herd stampeded at once, and broke down the sides
of the hills; so hotly were they pursued by the hunters
that about five hundred of them rushed pell-mell through
our caravan, frightening both men and oxen. Some of the
wagons were turned clear around and many of the terrified
oxen attempted to run to the hills with the heavy wagons
attached to them. Others were turned around so short
that they broke the tongues off. Nearly all the teams
got entangled in their gearing and became wild and unruly,
so that the perplexed drivers were unable to manage them.
The buffalo, the cattle, and the men were soon running
in every direction, and the excitement upset everybody
and everything. Many of the oxen broke their yokes and
stampeded. One big buffalo bull became entangled in one
of the heavy wagon-chains, and it is a fact that in his
desperate efforts to free himself, he not only snapped
the strong chain in two, but broke the ox-yoke to which
it was attached, and the last seen of him he was running
toward the hills with it hanging from his horns.
At times when the herd was very large, the horses scattered over
the prairie and were irrevocably lost; and such as did not become
wild fell a prey to the wolves. That fate was very frequently the
lot of stampeded horses bred in the States, they not having been
trained by a prairie life to take care of themselves. Instead of
stopping and bravely fighting off the blood-thirsty beasts, they
would run. Then the whole pack were sure to leave the bolder animals
and make for the runaways, which they seldom failed to overtake
and despatch.
On the Old Trail some years ago one of these stampedes occurred of
a band of government horses, in which were several valuable animals.
It was attended, however, with very little loss, through the courage
and great exertion of the men who had them in charge; many were
recovered, but none without having sustained injuries.
The Arkansas was low, but the banks steep, with high,
rank grass growing to the very water's edge. I found
a buffalo-trail cut through the deep bank, narrow and
precipitous, and down this I went, arriving in a short time
within a little distance of my supposed soldiers' camp.
When I had reached the middle of another deep cut in the
bank, I looked across to the island, and, great Caesar!
saw a hundred little fires, around which an aggregation
of a thousand Indians were huddled!
Of course, I had to let the oxen and my horse rest and fill
themselves until the afternoon, and I lay down, and fell
asleep, but did not sleep long, as I thought it dangerous
to remain too near the cattle. I rose and walked up a big,
dry sand creek that opened into the river, and after I had
ascended it for a couple of miles, found the banks very
steep; in fact, they rose to a height of eighteen or twenty
feet, and were sharply cut up by narrow trails made by
the buffalo.
Old plainsmen and the Indians aver that the buffalo never
return south; that each year's herd was composed of animals
which had never made the journey before, and would never
make it again. All admit the northern migration, that
being too pronounced for any one to dispute, but refuse
to admit the southern migration. Thousands of young calves
were caught and killed every spring that were produced
during this migration, and accompanied the herd northward;
but because the buffalo did not return south in one vast
body as they went north, it was stoutly maintained that
they did not go south at all. The plainsman could give
no reasonable hypothesis of his "No-return theory" on which
to base the origin of the vast herds which yearly made
their march northward. The Indian was, however, equal
to the occasion. Every plains Indian firmly believed that
the buffalo were produced in countless numbers in a country
under ground; that every spring the surplus swarmed,
like bees from a hive, out of the immense cave-like opening
in the region of the great Llano Estacado, or Staked Plain
of Texas. In 1879 Stone Calf, a celebrated chief, assured
me that he knew exactly where the caves were, though he had
never seen them; that the good God had provided this
means for the constant supply of food for the Indian, and
however recklessly the white men might slaughter, they could
never exterminate them. When last I saw him, the old man
was beginning to waver in this belief, and feared that
the "Bad God" had shut the entrances, and that his tribe
must starve.
The once famous grove, though denuded of much of its timber, may
still be seen from the car windows as the trains hurry mountainward.
During the day the young men, except the dancers, piled up
dry logs in a level open space near, for a grand demonstration.
At night, when it was fired, I folded my blanket over my
shoulders, comme les sauvages, and went out. The faces
of many girls were brilliant with vermilion; others were
blacked, their robes, leggings, and skin dresses glittering
with beads and quill-work. Rings and bracelets of shining
brass encircled their taper arms and fingers, and shells
dangled from their ears. Indeed, all the finery collectable
was piled on in barbarous profusion, though a few, in good
taste through poverty, wore a single band and but few rings,
with jetty hair parted in the middle, from the forehead
to the neck, terminating in two handsome braids.
The young men who can afford the expense trade for dollars
and silver coin of less denomination--coin as a currency
is not known among them--which they flatten thin, and fasten
to a braid of buffalo hair, attached to the crown lock,
which hangs behind, outside of the robe, and adds much to
the handsome appearance of the wearer.
The women do all the work both in camp and when moving. They are
doomed to a hopeless bondage of slavery, the fate of their sex in
every savage race; but they accept their condition stoically, and
there is as much affection among them for their husbands and children
as I have ever witnessed among the white race. Here are two instances
of their devotion, both of which came under my personal observation,
and I could give hundreds of others.
Late in the fall of 1858, I was one of a party on the trail of a band
of Indians who had been committing some horrible murders in a
mining-camp in the northern portion of Washington Territory. On the
fourth day out, just about dusk, we struck their moccasin tracks,
which we followed all night, and surprised their camp in the gray
light of the early morning. In less than ten minutes the fight
was over, and besides the killed we captured six prisoners. Then as
the rising sun commenced to gild the peaks of the lofty range on
the west, having granted our captives half an hour to take leave
of their families, the ankles of each were bound; they were made
to kneel on the prairie, a squad of soldiers, with loaded rifles,
were drawn up eight paces in front of them, and at the instant
the signal--a white handkerchief--was dropped the savages tumbled
over on the sod a heap of corpses. The parting between the condemned
men and their young wives and children, I shall never forget.
It was the most perfect exhibition of marital and filial love that
I have ever witnessed. Such harsh measures may seem cruel and
heartless in the light of to-day, but there was none other than
martial law then in the wilderness of the Northern Pacific coast,
and the execution was a stern necessity.
The other instance was ten years later. During the Indian campaign
in the winter of 1868-69 I was riding with a party of officers and
enlisted men, south of the Arkansas, about fourty miles from Fort Dodge.
We were watching some cavalrymen unearth three or four dead warriors
who had been killed by two scouts in a fierce unequal fight a few
weeks before, and as we rode into a small ravine among the sand hills,
we suddenly came upon a rudely constructed Cheyenne lodge. Entering,
we discovered on a rough platform, fashioned of green poles, a dead
warrior in full war-dress; his shield of buffalo-hide, pipe ornamented
with eagles' feathers, and medicine bag, were lying on the ground
beside him. At his head, on her knees, with hands clasped in the
attitude of prayer, was a squaw frozen to death. Which had first
succumbed, the wounded chief, or the devoted wife in the awful cold
of that winter prairie, will never be known, but it proved her love
for the man who had perhaps beaten her a hundred times. Such tender
and sympathetic affection is characteristic of the sex everywhere,
no less with the poor savage than in the dominant white race.
The young squaws take much care of their dress and horse
equipments; they dash furiously past on wild steeds,
astrideof the high-pommelled saddles. A fancifully
coloured cover, worked with beads or porcupine quills,
making a flashy, striking appearance, extended from withers
to rump of the horse, while the riders evinced an admirable
daring, worthy of Amazons. Their dresses were made of
buckskin, high at the neck, with short sleeves, or rather
none at all, fitting loosely, and reaching obliquely to
theknee, giving a Diana look to the costume; the edges
scalloped, worked with beads, and fringed. From the knee
downward the limb was encased in a tightly fitting legging,
terminating in a neat moccasin--both handsomely wrought
with beads. On the arms were bracelets of brass, which
glittered and reflected in the radiant morning sun, adding
much to their attractions. In their pierced ears, shells
from the Pacific shore were pendent; and to complete the
picture of savage taste and profusion, their fine
complexions were eclipsed by a coat of flaming vermilion.
We crossed the river on our way to the new camp. The alarm
manifested by the children in the lodge-pole drays, as they
dipped in the water, was amusing. The little fellows,
holding their breath, not daring to cry, looked imploringly
at their inexorable mothers, and were encouraged by words
of approbation from their stern fathers.
Garrard tells of two instances that came under his observation while
staying at the chief's lodge, and at John Smith's, in the Cheyenne
village, of the discipline to which the boys are subjected.
Smith's son Jack took a crying fit one cold night, much to
the annoyance of four or five chiefs, who had come to our
lodge to talk and smoke. In vain did the mother shake and
scold him with the severest Cheyenne words, until Smith,
provoked beyond endurance, took the squalling youngster in
his hands; he shu-ed and shouted and swore, but Jack had
gone too far to be easily pacified. He then sent for a
bucket of water from the river and poured cupful after
cupful on Jack, who stamped and screamed and bit in his
tiny rage. Notwithstanding, the icy stream slowly descended
until the bucket was emptied, another was sent for, and
again and again the cup was replenished and emptied on the
blubbering youth. At last, exhausted with exertion and
completely cooled down, he received the remaining water
in silence, and, with a few words of admonition, was
delivered over to his mother, in whose arms he stifled his
sobs, until his heartbreaking grief and cares were drowned
in sleep. What a devilish mixture Indian and American
blood is!
The Indians never chastise a boy, as they think his spirit would be
broken and cowed down; instead of a warrior he would be a squaw
--a harsh epithet indicative of cowardice--and they resort to any method
but infliction of blows to subdue a refractory scion.
Every one has his peculiar notion on this subject; and, in passing
the pipe, one must have it presented stem downward, another the
reverse; some with the bowl resting on the ground; and as this is
a matter of great solemnity, their several fancies are respected.
Sometimes I required them to hand it to me, when smoking, in imitation
of their custom; on this, a faint smile, half mingled with respect
and pity for my folly in tampering with their sacred ceremony, would
appear on their faces, and with a slow negative shake of the head,
they would ejaculate, "I-sto-met-mah-son-ne-wah-hein"--"Pshaw!
that's foolish; don't do so."
Religion the Cheyennes have none, if, indeed, we except the respect
paid to the pipe; nor do we see any sign or vestige of spiritual
worship; except one remarkable thing--in offering the pipe, before
every fresh filling, to the sky, the earth, and the winds, the motion
made in so doing describes the form of a cross; and, in blowing the
first four whiffs, the smoke is invariably sent in the same four
directions. It is undoubtedly void of meaning in reference to
Christian worship, yet it is a superstition, founded on ancient
tradition. This tribe once lived near the head waters of the
Mississippi; and, as the early Jesuit missionaries were energetic
zealots, in the diffusion of their religious sentiments, probably to
make their faith more acceptable to the Indians, the Roman Catholic
rites were blended with the homage shown to the pipe, which custom
of offering, in the form of a cross, is still retained by them;
but as every custom is handed down by tradition merely, the true
source has been forgotten.
According to their legends, they came from the Pacific and encountered
the Algonquins about the head waters of the Mississippi, where they
were held in check, a portion of them, however, pushing on through
their enemies and securing a foothold on the shores of Lake Michigan.
This bold band was called by the Chippewas Winnebagook (men-from-the-
salt-water). In their original habitat on the great northern plains
was located the celebrated "red pipe-stone quarry," a relatively
limited area, owned by all tribes, but occupied permanently by none;
a purely neutral ground--so designated by the Great Spirit--where no
war could possibly occur, and where mortal enemies might meet to
procure the material for their pipes, but the hatchet was invariably
buried during that time on the consecrated spot.
The quarry has long since passed out of the control and jurisdiction
of the Indians and is not included in any of their reservations,
though near the Sisseton agency. It is located on the summit of
the high divide between the Missouri and St. Peter's rivers in
Minnesota, at a point not far from where the ninety-seventh meridian
of longitude (from Greenwich) intersects the forty-fifth parallel
of latitude. The divide was named by the French Coteau des Prairies,
and the quarry is near its southern extremity. Not a tree or bush
could be seen from the majestic mound when I last was there, some
twenty years ago--nothing but the apparently interminable plains,
until they were lost in the deep blue of the horizon.
The luxury of smoking appears to have been known to all the tribes
on the continent in their primitive state, and they indulge in the
habit to excess; any one familiar with their life can assert that
the American savage smokes half of his time. Where so much attention
is given to a mere pleasure, it naturally follows that he would devote
his leisure and ingenuity to the construction of his pipe. The bowls
of these were, from time immemorial, made of the peculiar red stone
from the famous quarry referred to, which, until only a little over
fifty years ago, was never visited by a white man, its sanctity
forbidding any such sacrilege.
That the spot should have been visited for untold centuries by all
the Indian nations, who hid their weapons as they approached it,
under fear of the vengeance of the Great Spirit, will not seem strange
when the religion of the race is understood. One of the principal
features of the quarry is a perpendicular wall of granite about
thirty feet high, facing the west, and nearly two miles long. At the
base of the wall there is a level prairie, running parallel to it,
half a mile wide. Under this strip of land, after digging through
several slaty layers of rock, the red sandstone is found. Old graves,
fortifications, and excavations abound, all confirmatory of the
traditions clustering around the weird place.
Within a few rods of the base of the wall is a group of immense gneiss
boulders, five in number, weighing probably many hundred tons each,
and under these are two holes in which two imaginary old women reside
--the guardian spirits of the quarry--who were always consulted before
any pipe-stone could be dug up. The veneration for this group of
boulders was something wonderful; not a spear of grass was broken or
bent by his feet within sixty or seventy paces from them, where the
trembling Indian halted, and throwing gifts to them in humble
supplication, solicited permission to dig and take away the red stone
for his pipes.
Near this spot, too, on a high mound, was the "Thunder's nest," where
a very small bird sat upon her eggs during fair weather. When the
skies were rent with thunder at the approach of a storm, she was
hatching her brood, which caused the terrible commotion in the heavens.
The bird was eternal. The "medicine men" claimed that they had often
seen her, and she was about as large as a little finger. Her mate
was a serpent whose fiery tongue destroyed the young ones as soon as
they were born, and the awful noise accompanying the act darted
through the clouds.
Severed about seven or eight feet from the main wall of the quarry
by some convulsion of nature ages ago, there is an immense column
just equal in height to the wall, seven feet in diameter and
beautifully polished on its top and sides. It is called The Medicine,
or Leaping Rock, and considerable nerve is required to jump on it from
the main ledge and back again. Many an Indian's heart, in the past,
has sighed for the honour of the feat without daring to attempt it.
A few, according to the records of the tribes, have tried it with
success, and left their arrows standing up in its crevice; others
have made the leap and reached its slippery surface only to slide off,
and suffer instant death on the craggy rocks in the awful chasm below.
Every young man of the many tribes was ambitious to perform the feat,
and those who had successfully accomplished it were permitted to
boast of it all their lives.
CHAPTER XIV.
TRAPPERS.
The initial opening of the trade with New Mexico from the Missouri
River, as has been related, was not direct to Santa Fe. The limited
number of pack-trains at first passed to the north of the Raton Range,
and travelled to the Spanish settlements in the valley of Taos.
The old Pueblo fort, as nearly as can be determined now, was built
as early as 1840, or not later than 1842, and, as one authority
asserts, by George Simpson and his associates, Barclay and Doyle.
Beckwourth claims to have been the original projector of the fort,
and to have given the general plan and its name, in which I am
inclined to believe that he is correct; perhaps Barclay, Doyle, and
Simpson were connected with him, as he states that there were other
trappers, though he mentions no names. It was a square fort of adobe,
with circular bastions at the corners, no part of the walls being
more than eight feet high. Around the inside of the plaza, or corral,
were half a dozen small rooms inhabited by as many Indian traders and
mountain-men.
The old trappers and hunters of the Pueblo fort lived entirely upon
game, and a greater part of the year without bread. As soon as their
supply of meat was exhausted, they started to the mountains with two
or three pack-animals, and brought back in two or three days loads
of venison and buffalo.
On each side vast rolling prairies stretch away for hundreds of miles,
gradually ascending on the side towards the mountains, where the
highlands are sparsely covered with pinyon and cedar. The lofty banks
through which the Arkansas occasionally passes are of shale and
sandstone, rising precipitously from the water. Ascending the river
the country is wild and broken, until it enters the mountain region,
where the scenery is incomparably grand and imposing. The surrounding
prairies are naturally arid and sterile, producing but little
vegetation, and the primitive grass, though of good quality, is thin
and scarce. Now, however, under a competent system of irrigation,
the whole aspect of the landscape is changed from what it was thirty
years ago, and it has all the luxuriance of a garden.
The whole country, it is claimed, was once possessed by the Shos-shones,
or Snake Indians, of whom the Comanches of the Southern plains are
a branch; and, although many hundred miles divide their hunting-grounds,
they were once, if not the same people, tribes or bands of that great
and powerful nation. They retain a language in common, and there is
also a striking analogy in many of their religious rites and ceremonies,
in their folk-lore, and in some of their everyday customs. These
facts prove, at least, that there was at one time a very close
alliance which bound the two tribes together. Half a century ago they
were, in point of numbers, the two most powerful nations in all the
numerous aggregations of Indians in the West; the Comanches ruling
almost supreme on the Eastern plains, while the Shos-shones were the
dominant tribe in the country beyond the Rocky Mountains, and in the
mountains themselves. Once, many years ago, before the problem of the
relative strength of the various tribes was as well solved as now,
the Shos-shones were supposed to be the most powerful, and numerically
the most populous, tribe of Indians on the North American continent.
In the immediate vicinity of the old Pueblo fort at the time of its
greatest business prosperity, game was scarce; the buffalo had for
some years deserted the neighbouring prairies, but they were always
to be found in the mountain-valleys, particularly in one known as
"Bayou Salado," which forty-five years ago abounded in elk, bear,
deer, and antelope.
The fort was situated a few hundred yards above the mouth of the
"Fontaine qui Bouille" River,[47] so called from two springs of
mineral water near its head, under Pike's Peak, about sixty miles
above its mouth.
As is the case with all the savage races of the world, the American
Indians possess hereditary legends, accounting for all the phenomena
of nature, or any occurrence which is beyond their comprehension.
The Shos-shones had the following story to account for the presence of
these wonderful springs in the midst of their favourite hunting-ground.
The two fountains, one pouring forth the sweetest water imaginable,
the other a stream as bitter as gall, are intimately connected with
the cause of the separation of the two tribes. Their legend thus runs:
Many hundreds of winters ago, when the cottonwoods on the big river
were no higher than arrows, and the prairies were crowded with game,
the red men who hunted the deer in the forests and the buffalo on the
plains all spoke the same language, and the pipe of peace breathed its
soothing cloud whenever two parties of hunters met on the boundless
prairie.
It happened one day that two hunters of different nations met on the
bank of a small rivulet, to which both had resorted to quench their
thirst. A small stream of water, rising from a spring on a rock
within a few feet of the bank, trickled over it and fell splashing
into the river. One hunter sought the spring itself; the other,
tired by his exertions in the chase, threw himself at once to the
ground, and plunged his face into the running stream.
The latter had been unsuccessful in the hunt, and perhaps his bad
fortune, and the sight of the fat deer which the other threw from his
back before he drank at the crystal spring, caused a feeling of
jealousy and ill-humour to take possession of his mind. The other,
on the contrary, before he satisfied his thirst, raised in the hollow
of his hand a portion of the water, and, lifting it toward the sun,
reversed his hand, and allowed it to fall upon the ground, as a
libation to the Great Spirit, who had vouch-safed him a successful
hunt and the blessing of the refreshing water with which he was about
to quench his thirst.
This reminder that he had neglected the usual offering only increased
the feeling of envy and annoyance which filled the unsuccessful
hunter's heart. The Evil Spirit at that moment entering his body,
his temper fairly flew away, and he sought some pretence to provoke
a quarrel with the other Indian.
"The Great Spirit places the cool water at the spring," answered the
other hunter, "that his children may drink it pure and undefiled.
The running water is for the beasts which scour the plains. Ausaqua
is a chief of the Shos-shones; he drinks at the head water."
Wacomish almost burst with rage as the other spoke; but his coward
heart prevented him from provoking an encounter with the calm Shos-shone.
The latter, made thirsty by the words he had spoken--for the Indian is
ever sparing of his tongue--again stooped down to the spring to drink,
when the subtle warrior of the Comanches suddenly threw himself upon
the kneeling hunter and, forcing his head into the bubbling water,
held him down with all his strength until his victim no longer
struggled; his stiffened limbs relaxed, and he fell forward over
the spring, drowned.
Mechanically the Comanche dragged the body a few paces from the water,
and, as soon as the head of the dead Indian was withdrawn, the spring
was suddenly and strangely disturbed. Bubbles sprang up from the
bottom, and, rising to the surface, escaped in hissing gas. A thin
vapour arose, and, gradually dissolving, displayed to the eyes of the
trembling murderer the figure of an aged Indian, whose long, snowy
hair and venerable beard, blown aside from his breast, discovered the
well-known totem of the great Wankanaga, the father of the Comanche
and Shos-shone nation.
From that day the two mighty tribes of the Shos-shones and Comanches
have remained severed and apart, although a long and bloody war
followed the treacherous murder.
The Indians regarded these wonderful springs with awe. The Arapahoes,
especially, attributed to the Spirit of the springs the power of
ordaining the success or failure of their war expeditions. As their
warriors passed by the mysterious pools when hunting their hereditary
enemies, the Utes, they never failed to bestow their votive offerings
upon the spring, in order to propitiate the Manitou of the strange
fountain, and insure a fortunate issue to their path of war. As late
as twenty-five years ago, the visitor to the place could always find
the basin of the spring filled with beads and wampum, pieces of red
cloth and knives, while the surrounding trees were hung with strips
of deerskin, cloth, and moccasins. Signs were frequently observed
in the vicinity of the waters unmistakably indicating that a war-dance
had been executed there by the Arapahoes on their way to the Valley
of Salt, occupied by the powerful Utes.
Never was there such a paradise for hunters as this lone and solitary
spot in the days when the region was known only to them and the
trappers of the great fur companies. The shelving prairie, at the
bottom of which the springs are situated, is entirely surrounded by
rugged mountains and contained two or three acres of excellent grass,
affording a safe pasture for their animals, which hardly cared to
wander from such feeding and the salt they loved to lick.
A trapper's camp in the old days was quite a picture, as were all its
surroundings. He did not always take the trouble to build a shelter,
unless in the winter. A couple of deerskins stretched over a willow
frame was considered sufficient to protect him from the storm.
Sometimes he contented himself with a mere "breakwind," the rocky
wall of a canyon, or large ravine. Near at hand he set up two poles,
in the crotch of which another was laid, where he kept, out of reach
of the hungry wolf and coyote, his meat, consisting of every variety
afforded by the region in which he had pitched his camp. Under cover
of the skins of the animals he had killed hung his old-fashioned
powder-horn and bullet-pouch, while his trusty rifle, carefully
defended from the damp, was always within reach of his hand. Round
his blazing fire at night his companions, if he had any, were other
trappers on the same stream; and, while engaged in cleaning their
arms, making and mending moccasins, or running bullets, they told
long yarns, until the lateness of the hour warned them to crawl under
their blankets.
Not far from the camp, his animals, well hobbled, fed in sight;
for nothing did a hunter dread more than a visit from horse-stealing
Indians, and to be afoot was the acme of misery.
Some hunters who had married squaws carried about with them regular
buffalo-skin lodges, which their wives took care of, according to
Indian etiquette.
When a beaver lodge was discovered, the trap was set at the edge of
the dam, at a point where the animal passed from deep to shoal water,
and always under the surface. Early in the morning, the hunter
mounted his mule and examined all his traps.
In the days of the great fur companies, trappers were of two kinds--
the hired hand and the free trapper. The former was hired by the
company, which supplied him with everything necessary, and paid him
a certain price for his furs and peltries. The other hunted on his
own hook, owned his animals and traps, went where he pleased, and
sold to whom he chose.
All the wits of the wily savage were called into play to gain an
advantage over the plucky white man; but with the resources natural
to a civilized mind, the hunter seldom failed, under equal chance,
to circumvent the cunning of the red man. Sometimes, following his
trail for weeks, the Indian watched him set his traps on some timbered
stream, and crawling up the bed of it, so that he left no tracks,
he lay in the bushes until his victim came to examine his traps.
Then, when he approached within a few feet of the ambush, whiz! flew
the home-drawn arrow, which never failed at such close quarters to
bring the unsuspecting hunter to the ground. But for one white scalp
that dangled in the smoke of an Indian's lodge, a dozen black ones,
at the end of the season, ornamented the camp-fires of the rendezvous
where the furs were sold.
The beaver was the main object of the hunter's quest; its skins were
once worth from six to eight dollars a pound; then they fell to only
one dollar, which hardly paid the expenses of traps, animals, and
equipment for the hunt, and was certainly no adequate remuneration
for the hardships, toil, and danger undergone by the trappers.
The beaver was once found in every part of North America, from Canada
to the Gulf of Mexico, but has so retired from the encroachments of
civilized man, that it is only to be met with occasionally on some
tributary to the remote mountain streams.
The old trappers always aimed to set their traps so that the beaver
would drown when taken. This was accomplished by sinking the trap
several inches under water, and driving a stake through a ring on the
end of the chain into the bottom of the creek. When the beaver finds
himself caught, he pitches and plunges about until his strength is
exhausted, when he sinks down and is drowned, but if he succeeds in
getting to the shore, he always extricates himself by gnawing off
the leg that is in the jaws of the trap.
The captured animals were skinned, and the tails, which are a great
dainty, carefully packed into camp. The skin was then stretched over
a hoop or framework of willow twigs and allowed to dry, the flesh and
fatty substance adhering being first carefully scraped off. When dry,
it was folded into a square sheet, the fur turned inwards, and the
bundle, containing twenty skins, tightly pressed and tied, was ready
for transportation. The beaver after the hide is taken off weighs
about twelve pounds, and its flesh, although a little musky, is very
fine. Its tail which is flat and oval in shape, is covered with
scales about the size of those of a salmon. It was a great delicacy
in the estimation of the old trapper; he separated it from the body,
thrust a stick in one end of it, and held it before the fire with the
scales on. In a few moments large blisters rose on the surface,
which were very easily removed. The tail was then perfectly white,
and delicious. Next to the tail the liver was another favourite of
the trapper, and when properly cooked it constituted a delightful repast.
After the season was over, or the hunter had loaded all his pack-animals,
he proceeded to the "rendezvous," where the buyers were to congregate
for the purchase of the fur, the locality of which had been agreed
upon when the hunters started out on their expedition. One of these
was at Bent's old fort and one at Pueblo; another at "Brown's Hole"
on Green River, and there were many more on the great streams and in
the mountains. There the agents of the fur companies and traders
waited for the arrival of the trappers, with such an assortment of
goods as the hardy men required, including, of course, an immense
supply of whiskey. The trappers dropped in day after day, in small
bands, packing their loads of beaver-skins, not infrequently to the
value of a thousand dollars each, the result of one hunt.
Trading with the Indians in the primitive days of the border was just
what the word signifies in its radical interpretation--a system of
barter exclusively. No money was used in the transaction, as it was
long afterward before the savages began to learn something of the
value of currency from their connection with the sutler's and agency
stores established on reservations and at military posts on the plains
and in the mountains. In the early days, if an Indian by any chance
happened to get possession of a piece of money (only gold or silver
was recognized as a medium of exchange in the remote West), he would
immediately fashion it into some kind of an ornament with which to
adorn his person. Some tribes, however, did indulge in a sort of
currency, worthless except among themselves. This consisted of rare
shells, such as the Oligachuck, so called, of the Pacific coast
nations, used by them within my own recollection, as late as 1858.
Uncle John Smith, Kit Carson, L. B. Maxwell, Uncle Dick Wooton, and
a host of other well-known Indian traders, long since dead, have
often told me that the first thing they did on entering a village
with a pack-load of trinkets to barter, in the earlier days before
the whites had encroached to any great extent, was to arrange a
schedule of prices. They would gather a large number of sticks,
each one representing an article they had brought. With these crude
symbols the Indian made himself familiar in a little while, and when
this preliminary arrangement had been completed, the trading began.
The Indian, for instance, would place a buffalo-robe on the ground;
then the trader commenced to lay down a number of the sticks,
representing what he was willing to give for the robe. The Indian
revolved the transaction in his mind until he thought he was getting
a fair equivalent according to his ideas, then the bargain was made.
It was claimed by these old traders, when they related this to me,
that the savage generally was not satisfied, always insisting upon
having more sticks placed on the pile. I suspect, however, that the
trader was ever prepared for this, and never gave more than he
originally intended. The price of that initial robe having been
determined on, it governed the price of all the rest for the whole
trade, regardless of size or fineness, for that day. What was traded
for was then placed by the Indian on one side of the lodge, and the
trader put what he was to give on the other. After prices had been
agreed upon, business went on very rapidly, and many thousand dollars'
worth of valuable furs were soon collected by the successful trader,
which he shipped to St. Louis and converted into gold.
I well remember, when the small copper cent, with its spread eagle
upon it, was first issued, about the year 1857, how the soldiers of
a frontier garrison where I was stationed at the time palmed them off
upon the simple savages as two dollar and a half gold pieces, which
they resembled as long as they retained their brightness, and with
which the Indians were familiar, as many were received by the troops
from the paymaster every two months, the savages receiving them in
turn for horses and other things purchased of them by the soldiers.
I have known of Indians who gave nuggets of gold for common calico
shirts costing two dollars in that region and seventy-five cents in
the States, while the lump of precious metal was worth, perhaps,
five or seven dollars. As late as twenty-eight years ago, I have
traded for beautifully smoke-tanned and porcupine-embroidered
buffalo-robes for my own use, giving in exchange a mere loaf of bread
or a cupful of brown sugar.
Very early in the history of the United States, in 1786, the government,
under the authority of Congress, established a plan of trade with
the Indians. It comprised supplying all their physical wants without
profit; factories, or stations as they were called, were erected at
points that were then on the remote frontier; where factors, clerks,
and interpreters were stationed. The factors furnished goods of all
kinds to the Indians, and received from them in exchange furs and
peltries. There was an officer in charge of all these stations called
the superintendent of Indian trade, appointed by the President.
As far back as 1821, there were stations at Prairie du Chien,
Fort Edward, Fort Osage, with branches at Chicago, Green Bay in
Arkansas, on the Red River, and other places in the then far West.
These stations were movable, and changed from time to time to suit the
convenience of the Indians. In 1822 the whole system was abolished
by act of Congress, and its affairs wound up, the American Fur Company,
the Missouri Fur Company, and a host of others having by that time
become powerful. Like the great corporations of to-day, they
succeeded in supplanting the government establishments. Of course,
the Indians of the remote plains, which included all the vast region
west of the Missouri River, never had the benefits of the government
trading establishments, but were left to the tender mercies of the
old plainsmen and trappers.
Until the railroad reached the mountains, when the march of a wonderful
immigration closely followed, usurping the lands claimed by the
savages, and the latter were driven, perforce, upon reservations,
the winter camps of the Kiowas, Arapahoes, and Cheyennes were strung
along the Old Trail for miles, wherever a belt of timber on the margin
of the Arkansas, or its tributaries, could be found large enough to
furnish fuel for domestic purposes and cottonwood bark for the vast
herds of ponies in the severe snow-storms.
Baptiste Brown was one of the most famous trappers. Few men had seen
more of wild life in the great prairie wilderness. He had hunted
with nearly every tribe of Indians on the plains and in the mountains,
was often at Bent's Fort, and his soul-stirring narratives made him
a most welcome guest at the camp-fire.
The temperature is very equable, and at one time, years ago, hundreds
of trappers made it their winter quarters. Indians, too, of all the
northern tribes, but more especially the Arapahoes, frequented it to
trade with the white men.
Baptiste Brown was a Canadian who spoke villanous French and worse
English; his vocabulary being largely interspersed with "enfant de
garce," "sacre," "sacre enfant," and "damn" until it was a difficult
matter to tell what he was talking about.
Among the maidens who came with the Arapahoes, when that tribe made
a visit to "Brown's Hole" one winter for the purpose of trading with
the whites, was a young, merry, and very handsome girl, named "Unami,"
who after a few interviews completely captured Baptiste's heart.
Nothing was more common, as I have stated, than marriages between
the trappers and a beautiful redskin. Isolated absolutely from women
of his own colour, the poor mountaineer forgets he is white, which,
considering the embrowning influence of constant exposure and sunlight,
is not so marvellous after all. For a portion of the year there is
no hunting, and then idleness is the order of the day. At such times
the mountaineer visits the lodges of his dark neighbours for amusement,
and in the spirited dance many a heart is lost to the squaws.
The young trapper, like other enamoured ones of his sex in civilization,
lingers around the house of his fair sweetheart while she transforms
the soft skin of the doe into moccasins, ornamenting them richly
with glittering beads or the coloured quills of the porcupine, all
the time lightening the long hours with the plain-songs of their tribe.
It was upon an occasion of this character that Baptiste, then in the
prime of his youthful manhood, first loved the dark-eyed Arapahoe.
The course open to him was to woo and win her; but alas! savage papas
are just like fathers in the best civilization--the only difference
between them is that the former are more open and matter-of-fact,
since in savage etiquette a consideration is required in exchange
for the daughter, which belongs exclusively to the parent, and must
be of equal marketable value to the girl.
The usual method is to select your best horse, take him to the lodge
of your inamorata's parents, tie him to a tree, and walk away.
If the animal is considered a fair exchange, matters are soon settled
satisfactorily; if not, other gifts must be added.
It was upon one of these mystic lodges that Baptiste had accidentally
stumbled, and strange thoughts flashed through his mind; for within
the sacred place were articles, doubtless, of value more than
sufficient to purchase the necessary horse with which he could win
the fair Unami. Baptiste was sorely tempted, but there was an
instinctive respect for religion in the minds of the old trappers,
and Brown had too much honour to think of robbing the Indian temple,
although he distinctly remembered a time when a poor white trapper,
having been robbed of his poncho at the beginning of winter, made
free with a blanket he had found in one of these Arapahoe sacred
lodges. When he was brought before the medicine men of the tribe,
charged with the sacrilege, his defence, that, having been robbed,
the Great Spirit took pity on him and pointed out the blanket and
ordered him to clothe himself, was considered good, on the theory
that the Great Spirit had an undoubted right to give away his own
property; consequently the trapper was set free.
Brown, after considering the case, was about to move away, when a hand
was laid on his shoulder, and turning round there stood before him
an Indian in full war-paint.
The greeting was friendly, for the young savage was the brother of
Baptiste's love, to whom he had given many valuable presents during
the past season.
The young brave shook his head gravely, as be pointed to his belt,
where not a scalp was to be seen, and said: "Five moons have gone
to sleep and the Arapahoe hatchet has not been raised. The Blackfeet
are dogs, and hide in their holes."
Without adding anything to this hint that none of the young men had
been able to fulfil their vows, the disconsolate savage led the way
to the camp of the other Arapahoes, his companions in the quest for
scalps. Baptiste was very glad to see the face of a fellow-creature
once more, and he cheerfully followed the footsteps of the young brave,
which were directed away from the medicine lodge toward the rocky
canyon which he had already travelled that morning, where in the very
centre of the dark defile, and within twenty feet of where he had
recently passed, was the camp of the disappointed band. Baptiste was
cordially received, and invited to share the meal of which the party
were about to partake, after which the pipe was passed around.
In a little while the Indians began to talk among themselves by signs,
which made Baptiste feel somewhat uncomfortable, for it was apparent
that he was the object of their interest.
They had argued that Brown's skin indicated that he belonged to the
great tribe of their natural enemies, and with the blood of a white
on their garments, they would have fulfilled the terms of their vow
to their friends and the Great Spirit.
Noticing the trend of the debate, which would lead his friend into
trouble, the brother of Unami arose, and waving his hand said:--
A flint lancet was produced, Baptiste's arm was bared, and the blood
which flowed from the slight wound was carefully distributed, and
scattered over the robes of the delighted Arapahoes.
The scene which followed was quite unexpected to Baptiste, who was
only glad to escape the death to which the majority had doomed him.
The Indians, perfectly satisfied that their vow of shedding an enemy's
blood had been fulfilled, were all gratitude; and to testify that
gratitude in a substantial manner each man sought his pack, and laid
at the feet of the surprised Baptiste a rich present. One gave an
otter skin, another that of a buffalo, and so on until his wealth in
furs outstripped his most sanguine expectations from his hunt.
The brother of Unami stood passively looking on until all the others
had successively honoured his guest, when he advanced toward Baptiste,
leading by its bridle a magnificent horse, fully caparisoned, and
a large pack-mule. To refuse would have been the most flagrant breach
of Indian etiquette, and beside, Brown was too alive to the advantage
that would accrue to him to be other than very thankful.
The camp was then broken up, and the kind savages were soon lost to
Baptiste's sight as they passed down the canyon; and he, as soon as he
had gained a little strength, for he was weak from the blood he had
shed in the good cause, mounted his horse, after loading the mule
with his gifts, and made the best of his way to his lonely lodge,
where he remained several days. He then sold his furs at a good
price, as it was so early in the season, bartered for a large quantity
of knives, beads, powder, and balls, and returned to the Arapahoe
village, where the horse was considered a fair exchange for the
pretty Unami; and from that day, for over thirty years, they lived
as happy as any couple in the highest civilization.
The fate of the Pueblo, where the trappers and hunters had such good
times in the halcyon days of the border, like that which befell
nearly all the trading-posts and ranches on the Old Santa Fe Trail,
was to be partially destroyed by the savages. During the early
months of the winter of 1854, the Utes swept down through the Arkansas
valley, leaving a track of blood behind them, and frightening the
settlers so thoroughly that many left the country never to return.
The outbreak was as sudden as it was devastating. The Pueblo was
captured by the savages, and every man, woman, and child in it
murdered, with the exception of one aged Mexican, and he was so badly
wounded that he died in a few days.
His story was that the Utes came to the gates of the fort on Christmas
morning, professing the greatest friendship, and asking permission
to be allowed to come inside and hold a peace conference. All who
were in the fort at the time were Mexicans, and as their cupidity
led them to believe that they could do some advantageous trading
with the Indians, they foolishly permitted the whole band to enter.
The result was that a wholesale massacre followed. There were
seventeen persons in all quartered there, only one of whom escaped
death--the old man referred to--and a woman and her two children,
who were carried off as captives; but even she was killed before the
savages had gone a mile from the place. What became of the children
was never known; they probably met the same fate.
CHAPTER XV.
UNCLE JOHN SMITH.
Many of the men of the border were blunt in manners, rude in speech,
driven to the absolute liberty of the far West with better natures
shattered and hopes blasted, to seek in the exciting life of the
plainsman and mountaineer oblivion of some incidents of their youthful
days, which were better forgotten. Yet these aliens from society,
these strangers to the refinements of civilization, who would tear off
a bloody scalp even with grim smiles of satisfaction, were fine
fellows, full of the milk of human kindness, and would share their
last slapjack with a hungry stranger.
He spent his first winter with the Blackfeet Indians, but came very
near losing his scalp in their continual quarrels, and therefore
allied himself with the more peaceable Sioux. Once while on the
trail of a horse-stealing band of Arapahoes near the head waters
of the Arkansas, the susceptible young hunter fell in love with
a very pretty Cheyenne squaw, married her, and remained true to the
object of his early affection during all his long and eventful life,
extending over a period of forty years. For many decades he lived
with his dusky wife as the Indians did, having been adopted by the
tribe. He owned a large number of horses, which constituted the
wealth of the plains Indians, upon the sale of which he depended
almost entirely for his subsistence. He became very powerful in the
Cheyenne nation; was regarded as a chief, taking an active part in
the councils, and exercising much authority. His excellent judgment
as a trader with the various bands of Indians while he was employed
by the great fur companies made his services invaluable in the
strange business complications of the remote border. Besides
understanding the Cheyenne language as well as his native tongue,
he also spoke three other Indian dialects, French, and Spanish, but
with many Western expressions that sometimes grated harshly upon
the grammatical ear.
At the close of December, 1868, a few weeks after the battle of the
Washita, I was camping with my command on the bank of that historic
stream in the Indian Territory, waiting with an immense wagon-train
of supplies for the arrival of General Custer's command, the famous
Seventh Cavalry, and also the Nineteenth Kansas, which were supposed
to be lost, or wandering aimlessly somewhere in the region south of us.
It was more than two weeks before General Custer and his famished
troopers began to straggle in. During that period of anxious waiting
we lived almost exclusively on wild turkey, and longed for nature's
meat--the buffalo; but there were none of the shaggy beasts at that
time in the vicinity, so we had to content ourselves with the birds,
of which we became heartily tired.
For several days after our arrival on the creek, the men had been
urging Uncle John to tell them another story of his early adventures;
but the old trapper was in one of his silent moods--he frequently had
them--and could not be persuaded to emerge from his shell of reticence
despite their most earnest entreaties. I knew it would be of no use
for me to press him. I could, of course, order him to any duty, and
he would promptly obey; but his tongue, like the hand of Douglas,
was his own. I knew, also, that when he got ready, which would be
when some incident of camp-life inspired him, he would be as garrulous
as ever.
One evening just before supper, a party of enlisted men who had been
up the creek to catch fish, but had failed to take anything owing to
the frozen condition of the stream, returned with the skeleton of
a Cheyenne Indian which they had picked up on the battle-ground of
a month previously--one of Custer's victims in his engagement with
Black Kettle. This was the incentive Uncle John required. As he
gazed on the bleached bones of the warrior, he said: "Boys, I'm going
to tell you a good long story to-night. Them Ingin's bones has put
me in mind of it. After we've eat, if you fellows wants to hear it,
come down to headquarters tent, and I'll give it to you."
Of course word was rapidly passed from one to another, as the whole
camp was eager to hear the old trapper again. In a short time,
every man not on guard or detailed to keep up the signals on the
hills gathered around the dying embers of the cook's fire in front of
my tent; the enlisted men and teamsters in groups by themselves,
the officers a little closer in a circle, in the centre of which
Uncle John sat.
The night was cold, the sky covered with great fleecy patches,
through which the full moon, just fairly risen, appeared to be racing,
under the effect of that optical illusion caused by the rapidly
moving clouds. The coyotes had commenced their nocturnal concert
in the timbered recesses of the creek not far away, and on the
battle-field a short distance beyond, as they battened and fought
over the dead warriors and the carcasses of twelve hundred ponies
killed in that terrible slaughter by the intrepid Custer and his
troopers. The signals on the hills leaped into the crisp air like
the tongues of dragons in the myths of the ancients; in fact,
the whole aspect of the place, as we sat around the blazing logs of
our camp-fire, was weird and uncanny.
Every one was eager for the veteran guide to begin his tale; but as
I knew he could not proceed without smoking, I passed him my pouch
of Lone Jack--the brand par excellence in the army at that time.
Uncle John loaded his corn-cob, picked up a live coal, and, pressing
it down on the tobacco with his thumb, commenced to puff vigorously.
As soon as his withered old face was half hidden in a cloud of smoke,
he opened his story in his stereotyped way. I relate it just as he
told it, but divested of much of its dialect, so difficult to write:--
"Well, boys, it's a good many years ago, in June, 1845, if I don't
disremember. I was about forty-three, and had been in the mountains
and on the plains more than nineteen seasons. You see, I went out
there in 1826. There warn't no roads, nuthin' but the Santa Fe Trail,
in them days, and Ingins and varmints.
"There was four of us. Me, Bill Comstock, Dick Curtis, and Al Thorpe.
Dick was took in by the Utes two years afterwards at the foot of the
Spanish Peaks, and Al was killed by the Apaches at Pawnee Rock, in 1847.
"We'd been trapping up on Medicine Bow for more than three years
together, and had a pile of beaver, otter, mink, and other varmint's
skins cached in the hills, which we know'd was worth a heap of money;
so we concluded to take them to the river that summer. We started
from our trapping camp in April, and 'long 'bout the middle of June
reached the Arkansas, near what is know'd as Point o' Rocks. You all
know where them is on the Trail west of Fort Dodge, and how them
rocks rises up out of the prairie sudden-like. We was a travelling
'long mighty easy, for we was all afoot, and had hoofed it the whole
distance, more than six hundred miles, driving five good mules ahead
of us. Our furs was packed on four of them, and the other carried
our blankets, extry ammunition, frying-pan, coffee-pot, and what
little grub we had, for we was obliged to depend upon buffalo,
antelope, and jack-rabbits; but, boys, I tell you there was millions
of 'em in them days.
"We had just got into camp at Point o' Rocks. It was 'bout four
o'clock in the afternoon; none of us carried watches, we always
reckoned time by the sun, and could generally guess mighty close, too.
It was powerful hot, I remember. We'd hobbled our mules close to the
ledge, where the grass was good, so they couldn't be stampeded, as
we know'd we was in the Pawnee country, and they was the most ornery
Ingins on the plains. We know'd nothing that was white ever came by
that part of the Trail without having a scrimmage with the red devils.
"Well, we hadn't more than took our dinner, when them mules give
a terrible snort, and tried to break and run, getting awful oneasy
all to once. Them critters can tell when Ingins is around. They's
better than a dozen dogs. I don't know how they can tell, but they
just naturally do.
"In less than five minutes after them mules began to worry, stopped
eating, and had their ears pricked up a trying to look over the ledge
towards the river, we heard a sharp firing down on the Trail, which
didn't appear to be more than a hundred yards off. You ought to seen
us grab our rifles sudden, and run out from behind them rocks, where
we was a camping, so comfortable-like, and just going to light our
pipes for a good smoke. It didn't take us no time to get down on to
the Trail, where we seen a Mexican bull train, that we know'd must
have come from Santa Fe, and which had stopped and was trying to corral.
More than sixty painted Pawnees was a circling around the outfit,
howling as only them can howl, and pouring a shower of arrows into
the oxen. Some was shaking their buffalo-robes, trying to stampede
the critters, so they could kill the men easier.
"We lit out mighty lively, soon as we seen what was going on, and
reached the head of the train just as the last wagon, that was
furtherest down the Trail, nigh a quarter of a mile off, was cut out
by part of the band. Then we seen a man, a woman, and a little boy
jump out, and run to get shet of the Ingins what had cut out the
wagon from the rest of the train. One of the red devils killed the
man and scalped him, while the other pulled the woman up in front
of him, and rid off into the sand hills, and out of sight in a minute.
Then the one what had killed her husband started for the boy, who was
a running for the train as fast as his little legs could go. But we
was nigh enough then; and just as the Ingin was reaching down from
his pony for the kid, Al Thorpe--he was a powerful fine shot--draw'd up
his gun and took the red cuss off his critter without the paint-bedaubed
devil know'n' what struck him.
"The boy, seeing us, broke and run for where we was, and I reckon
the rest of the Ingins seen us then for the first time, too. We was
up with the train now, which was kind o' halfway corralled, and
Dick Curtis picked up the child--he warn't more than seven years old--
and throw'd him gently into one of the wagons, where he'd be out of
the way; for we know'd there was going to be considerable more
fighting before night. We know'd, too, we Americans would have to do
the heft of it, as them Mexican bull-whackers warn't much account,
nohow, except to cavort around and swear in Spanish, which they
hadn't done nothing else since we'd come up to the train; besides,
their miserable guns warn't much better than so many bows and arrows.
"We Americans talked together for a few moments as to what was best
to be did, while the Ingins all this time was keeping up a lively
fire for them. We made as strong a corral of the wagons as we could,
driving out what oxen the Mexicans had put in the one they had made,
but you can't do much with only nine wagons, nohow. Fortunately,
while we was fixing things, the red cusses suddenly retreated out of
the range of our rifles, and we first thought they had cleared out
for good. We soon discovered, however, they were only holding a
pow-wow; for in a few minutes back they come, mounted on their ponies,
with all their fixin's and fresh war-paint on.
"We four Americans warn't idle when them Ingins come a charging up;
we kept our eye skinned, and whenever we could draw a bead, one of
them tumbled off his pony, you bet! When they'd come back for their
dead--we'd already killed three of them--we had a big advantage, wasted
no shots, and dropped four of them; one apiece, and you never heard
Ingins howl so. It was getting kind o' dark by this time, and the
varmints didn't seem anxious to fight any more, but went down to the
river and scooted off into the sand hills on the other side.
We waited more than half an hour for them, but as they didn't come
back, concluded we'd better light out too. We told the Mexicans to
yoke up, and as good luck would have it they found all the cattle
close by, excepting them what pulled the wagon what the Ingins had
cut out, and as it was way down the Trail, we had to abandon it;
for it was too dark to hunt it up, as we had no time to fool away.
"We put all our outfit into the train; it wasn't loaded, but going
empty to the Missouri, to fetch back a sawmill for New Mexico.
Then we made a soft bed in the middle wagon out of blankets for the
kid, and rolled out 'bout ten o'clock, meaning to put as many miles
between us and them Ingins as the oxen could stand. We four hoofed it
along for a while, then rid a piece, catching a nap now and then as
best we could, for we was monstrous tired. By daylight we'd made
fourteen miles, and was obliged to stop to let the cattle graze.
We boiled our coffee, fried some meat, and by that time the little
boy waked. He'd slept like a top all night and hadn't no supper
either; so when I went to the wagon where he was to fetch him out,
he just put them baby arms of his'n around my neck, and says,
'Where's mamma?'
"I tell you, boys, that nigh played me out. He had no idee, 'cause
he was too young to realize what had happened; we know'd his pa was
killed, but where his ma was, God only know'd!"
Here the old man stopped short in his narrative, made two or three
efforts as if to swallow something that would not go down, while his
eyes had a far-away look. Presently he picked up a fresh coal from
the fire, placed it on his pipe, which had gone out, then puffing
vigorously for a few seconds, until his head was again enveloped in
smoke, he continued:--
"After I'd washed the little fellow's face and hands, I gave him a
tin cup of coffee and some meat. You'd ought to seen him eat; he was
hungrier than a coyote. Then while the others was a watering and
picketing the mules, I sot down on the grass and took the kid into
my lap to have a good look at him; for until now none of us had had
a chance.
"He was the purtiest child I'd ever seen; great black eyes, and
eyelashes that laid right on to his cheeks; his hair, too, was black,
and as curly as a young big-horn. I asked him what his name was, and
he says, 'Paul.' 'Hain't you got no other name?' says I to him again,
and he answered, 'Yes, sir,' for he was awful polite; I noticed that.
'Paul Dale,' says he prompt-like, and them big eyes of his'n looked
up into mine, as he says 'What be yourn?' I told him he must call me
'Uncle John,' and then he says again, as he put his arms around my
neck, his little lips all a quivering, and looking so sorrowful,
'Uncle John, where's mamma; why don't she come?'
"Boys, I don't really know what I did say. A kind o' mist came
before my eyes, and for a minute or two I didn't know nothing.
I come to in a little while, and seeing Thorpe bringing up the mules
from the river, where he'd been watering them, I says to Paul, to get
his mind on to something else besides his mother, 'Don't you want to
ride one of them mules when we pull out again?' The little fellow
jumped off my lap, clapped his hands, forgetting his trouble all at
once, child-like, and replied, 'I do, Uncle John, can I?'
"After we'd camped there 'bout three hours, the cattle full of grass
and all laying down chewing their cud, we concluded to move on and
make a few miles before it grow'd too hot, and to get further from
the Ingins, which we expected would tackle us again, as soon as they
could get back from their camp, where we felt sure they had gone for
reinforcements.
"While the Mexicans was yoking up, me and Thorpe rigged an easy
saddle on one of the mules, out of blankets, for the kid to ride on,
and when we was all ready to pull out, I histed him on, and you never
see a youngster so tickled.
"We had to travel mighty slow; couldn't make more than eighteen miles
a day with oxen, and that was in two drives, one early in the morning,
and one in the evening when it was cool, a laying by and grazing when
it was hot. We Americans walked along the Trail, and mighty slow
walking it was; 'bout two and a half miles an hour. I kept close
to Paul, for I began to set a good deal of store by him; he seemed
to cotton to me more than he did to the rest, wanting to stick near
me most of the time as he rid on the mule. I wanted to find out
something 'bout his folks, where they'd come from; so that when we
got to Independence, perhaps I could turn him over to them as ought
to have him; though in my own mind I was ornery enough to wish I
might never find them, and he'd be obliged to stay with me. The boy
was too young to tell what I wanted to find out; all I could get out
of him was they'd been living in Santa Fe since he was a baby, and
that his papa was a preacher. I 'spect one of them missionaries
'mong the heathenish Greasers. He said they was going back to his
grandma's in the States, but he could not tell where. I couldn't
get nothing out of them Mexican bull-whackers neither--what they
know'd wasn't half as much as the kid--and I had to give it up.
"Well, we kept moving along without having any more trouble for
a week; them Ingins never following us as we 'lowed they would.
I really enjoyed the trip such as I never had before. Paul he was
so 'fectionate and smart, that he 'peared to fill a spot in my heart
what had always been hollow until then. When he'd got tired of
riding the mule or in one of the wagons, he'd come and walk along
the Trail with me, a picking flowers, chasing the prairie-owls and
such, until his little legs 'bout played out, when I'd hist him on
his mule again. When we'd go into camp, Paul, he'd run and pick up
buffalo-chips for the fire, and wanted to help all he could.
Then when it came time to go to sleep, the boy would always get under
my blankets and cuddle up close to me. He'd be sure to say his
prayers first, though; but it seemed so strange to me who hadn't
heard a prayer for thirty years. I never tried to stop him, you may
be certain of that. He'd ask God to bless his pa and ma, and wind up
with 'Bless Uncle John too.' Then I couldn't help hugging him right
up tighter; for it carried me back to Old Missouri, to the log-cabin
in the woods where I was born, and used to say 'Now I lay me,' and
'Our Father' at my ma's knee, when I was a kid like him. I tell you,
boys, there ain't nothing that will take the conceit out of a man
here on the plains, like the company of a kid what has been
brought up right.
"I reckon we'd been travelling about ten days since we left Point o'
Rocks, and was on the other side of the Big Bend of the Arkansas,
near the mouth of the Walnut, where Fort Zarah is now. We had went
into camp at sundown, close to a big spring that's there yet.
We drawed up the wagons into a corral on the edge of the river where
there wasn't no grass for quite a long stretch; we done this to kind
o' fortify ourselves, for we expected to have trouble with the Ingins
there, if anywhere, as we warn't but seventeen miles from Pawnee Rock,
the worst place on the whole Trail for them; so we picked out that
bare spot where they couldn't set fire to the prairie. It was long
after dark when we eat our supper; then we smoked our pipes, waiting
for the oxen to fill themselves, which had been driven about a mile
off where there was good grass. The Mexicans was herding them, and
when they'd eat all they could hold, and was commencing to lay down,
they was driven into the corral. Then all of us, except Comstock and
Curtis, turned in; they was to stand guard until 'bout one o'clock,
when me and Thorpe was to change places with them and stay up until
morning; for, you see, we was afraid to trust them Mexicans.
"It seemed like we hadn't been asleep more than an hour when me and
Thorpe was called to take our turn on guard. We got out of our
blankets, I putting Paul into one of the wagons, then me and Thorpe
lighted our pipes and walked around, keeping our eyes and ears open,
watching the heavy fringe of timber on the creek mighty close, I tell
you. Just as daylight was coming, we noticed that our mules, what
was tied to a wagon in the corral, was getting uneasy, a pawing and
snorting, with their long ears cocked up and looking toward the Walnut.
Before I could finish saying to Thorpe, 'Them mules smells Ingins,'
half a dozen or more of the darned cusses dashed out of the timber,
yelling and shaking their robes, which, of course, waked up the whole
camp. Me and Thorpe sent a couple of shots after them, that scattered
the devils for a minute; but we hadn't hit nary one, because it was
too dark yet to draw a bead on them. We was certain there was a good
many more of them behind the first that had charged us; so we got all
the men on the side of the corral next to the Trail. The Ingins we
know'd couldn't get behind us, on account of the river, and we was
bound to make them fight where we wanted them to, if they meant to
fight at all.
"In less than a minute, quicker than I can tell you, sure enough,
out they came again, only there was 'bout eighty of them this time.
They made a dash at once, and their arrows fell like a shower of hail
on the ground and against the wagon-sheets as the cusses swept by on
their ponies. There wasn't anybody hurt, and our turn soon came.
Just as they circled back, we poured it into them, killing six and
wounding two. You see them Mexican guns had did some work that we
didn't expect, and then we Americans felt better. Well, boys,
them varmints made four charges like that on to us before we could
get shet of them; but we killed as many as sixteen or eighteen, and
they got mighty sick of it and quit; they had only knocked over one
Mexican, and put an arrow into Thorpe's arm.
"I was amused at little Paul all the time the scrimmage was going on.
He stood up in the wagon where I'd put him, a looking out of the hole
behind where the sheet was drawed together, and every time an Ingin
was tumbled off his pony, he would clap his hands and yell, 'There
goes another one, Uncle John!'
"After their last charge, they rode off out of range, where they
stood in little bunches talking to each other, holding some sort of
a pow-wow. It riled us to see the darned cusses keep so far away
from our rifles, because we wanted to lay a few more of them out, but
was obliged to keep still and watch out for some new deviltry.
We waited there until it was plumb night, not daring to move out yet;
but we managed to boil our coffee and fry slap-jacks and meat.
"The oxen kept up a bellowing and pawing around the corral, for they
was desperate hungry and thirsty, hadn't had nothing since the night
before; yet we couldn't help them any, as we didn't know whether we
was shet of the Ingins or not. We staid, patient-like, for two or
three hours more after dark to see what the Ingins was going to do,
as while we sot round our little fire of buffalo-chips, smoking our
pipes, we could still hear the red devils a howling and chanting,
while they picked up their dead laying along the river-bottom.
"As soon as morning broke--we'd ketched a nap now and then during
the night--we got ready for another charge of the Ingins, their
favourite time being just 'bout daylight; but there warn't hide or
hair of an Ingin in sight. They'd sneaked off in the darkness long
before the first streak of dawn; had enough of fighting, I expect.
As soon as we discovered they'd all cleared out, we told the drivers
to hitch up, and while they was yoking and watering, me 'n' Curtis
and Comstock buried the dead Mexican on the bank of the river, as we
didn't want to leave his bones to be picked by the coyotes, which
was already setting on the sand hills watching and waiting for us
to break camp. By the time we'd finished our job, and piled some
rocks on his grave, so as the varmints couldn't dig him up, the train
was strung out on the Trail, and then we rolled out mighty lively
for oxen; for the critters was hungry, and we had to travel three
or four miles the other side of the Walnut, where the grass was green,
before they could feed. The oxen seen it on the hills and they
lit out almost at a trot. It was 'bout sun-up when we got there,
when we turned the animals loose, corralled, and had breakfast.
"After we'd had our smoke, all we had to do was to put in the time
until five o'clock; for we couldn't move before then, as it would be
too hot by the time the oxen got filled. Paul and me went down to
the creek fishing; there was tremendous cat in the Walnut them days,
and by noon we'd ketched five big beauties, which we took to camp and
cooked for dinner. After I'd had my smoke, Paul and me went back to
the creek, where we stretched ourselves under a good-sized box-elder
tree--there wasn't no shade nowhere else--and took a sleep, while
Comstock and Curtis went jack-rabbit hunting across the river, as we
was getting scarce of meat.
"Thorpe, who was hit in the arm with an arrow, couldn't do much but
nuss his wound; so him and the Mexicans stood guard, a looking out
for Ingins, as we didn't know but what the cusses might come back and
make another raid on us, though we really didn't expect they would
have the gall to bother us any more--least not the same outfit what
had fought us the day before. That evening, 'bout six o'clock,
we rolled out again and went into camp late, having made twelve miles,
and didn't see a sign of Ingins.
"All the folks in the settlement what seen Paul took a great fancy
to him. Some wanted to adopt him, and some said I'd ought to take
him to St. Louis and place him in an orphan asylum; but I 'lowed if
there was going to be any adopting done, I'd do it myself, 'cause
the kid seemed now just as if he was my own; besides the little
fellow I know'd loved me and didn't want me to leave him. I had
kin-folks in Independence, an old aunt, and me and Paul staid there.
She had a young gal with her, and she learned Paul out of books;
so he picked up considerable, as we had to wait more than two months
before Colonel St. Vrain's caravan was ready to start for New Mexico.
"I bought Paul a coal-black pony, and had a suit of fine buckskin
made for him out of the pelt of a black-tail deer I'd shot the winter
before on Powder River. The seams of his trousers was heavily
fringed, and with his white sombrero, a riding around town on his
pony, he looked like one of them Spanish Dons what the papers
nowadays has pictures of; only he was smarter-looking than any Don
I ever see in my life.
"It was 'bout the last of August when we pulled out from Independence.
Comstock staid with us until we got ready to go, and then lit out
for St. Louis, and I hain't never seen him since. The caravan had
seventy-five six-mule teams in it, without counting ours, loaded with
dry-goods and groceries for Mora, New Mexico, where Colonel St. Vrain,
the owner, lived and had a big store. We had no trouble with the
Ingins going back across the plains; we seen lots, to be sure,
hanging on our trail, but they never attacked us; we was too strong
for them.
"I know'd they had cows up to the fort; so just before we was ready
for supper, I took Paul and started to see if we couldn't get some
milk for our coffee. It wasn't far, and we was camped a few hundred
yards from the gate, just outside the wall. Well, we went into the
kitchen, Paul right alongside of me, and there I seen a white woman
leaning over the adobe hearth a cooking--they had always only been
squaws before. She naturally looked up to find out who was coming in,
and when she seen the kid, all at once she give a scream, dropped the
dish-cloth she had in her hand, made a break for Paul, throw'd her
arms around him, nigh upsetting me, and says, while she was a sobbing
and taking on dreadful,--
"'My boy! My boy! Then I hain't prayed and begged the good Lord
all these days and nights for nothing!' Then she kind o' choked
again, while Paul, he says, as he hung on to her,--
"Well, there, boys, I just walked out of that kitchen a heap faster
than I'd come into it, and shut the door. When I got outside, for
a few minutes I couldn't see nothing, I was worked up so. As soon
as I come to, I went through the gate down to camp as quick as my
legs would carry me, to tell Thorpe and Curtis that Paul had found
his ma. They wanted to know all about it, but I couldn't tell them
nothing, I was so dumfounded at the way things had turned out.
We talked among ourselves a moment, then reckoned it was the best
to go up to the fort together, and ask the woman how on earth she'd
got shet of the Ingins what had took her off, and how it come she
was cooking there. We started out and when we got into the kitchen,
there was Paul and Mrs. Dale, and you never see no people so happy.
They was just as wild as a stampeded steer; she seemed to have growed
ten years younger than when I first went up there, and as for Paul,
he was in heaven for certain.
"First we had to tell her how we'd got the kid, and how we'd learned
to love him. All the time we was telling of it, and our scrimmages
with the Ingins, she was a crying and hugging Paul as if her heart
was broke. After we'd told all we know'd, we asked her to tell us
her story, which she did, and it showed she was a woman of grit and
education.
"She said the Ingins what had captured her took her up to their camp
on the Saw Log, a little creek north of Fort Dodge--you all know where
it is--and there she staid that night. Early in the morning they all
started for the north. She watched their ponies mighty close as
they rid along that day, so as to find out which was the fastest;
for she had made up her mind to make her escape the first chance
she got. She looked at the sun once in a while, to learn what course
they was taking; so that she could go back when she got ready, strike
the Sante Fe Trail, and get to some ranch, as she had seen several
while passing through the foot-hills of the Raton Range when she was
with the Mexican train.
"It was on the night of the fourth day after they had left Saw Log,
and had rid a long distance--was more than a hundred miles on their
journey--when she determined to try and light out. The whole camp
was fast asleep, for the Ingins was monstrous tired. She crawled
out of the lodge where she'd been put with some old squaws, and
going to where the ponies had been picketed, she took a little
iron-gray she'd had her eye on, jumped on his back, with only the
lariat for a bridle and without any saddle, not even a blanket,
took her bearings from the north star, and cautiously moved out.
She started on a walk, until she'd got 'bout four miles from camp,
and then struck a lope, keeping it up all night. By next morning
she'd made some forty miles, and then for the first time since she'd
left her lodge, pulled up and looked back, to see if any of the Ingins
was following her. When she seen there wasn't a living thing in sight,
she got off her pony, watered him out of a small branch, took a drink
herself, but not daring to rest yet, mounted her animal again and
rid on as fast as she could without wearing him out too quickly.
"Hour after hour she rid on, the pony appearing to have miraculous
endurance, until sundown. By that time she'd crossed the Saline,
the Smoky Hill, and got to the top of the divide between that river
and the Arkansas, or not more than forty miles from the Santa Fe Trail.
Then her wonderful animal seemed to weaken; she couldn't even make
him trot, and she was so nearly played out herself, she could hardly
set steady. What to do, she didn't know. The pony was barely able
to move at a slow walk. She was afraid he would drop dead under her,
and she was compelled to dismount, and in almost a minute, as soon
as she laid down on the prairie, was fast asleep.
"She had no idee how long she had slept when she woke up. The sun was
only 'bout two hours high. Then she know'd she had been unconscious
since sundown of the day before, or nigh twenty-four hours. Rubbing
her eyes, for she was kind o' bewildered, and looking around, there
she saw her pony as fresh, seemingly, as when she'd started.
He'd had plenty to eat, for the grass was good, but she'd had nothing.
She pulled a little piece of dried buffalo-meat out of her bosom,
which she'd brought along, all she could find at the lodge, and now
nibbled at that, for she was mighty hungry. She was terribly sore
and stiff too, but she mounted at once and pushed on, loping and
walking him by spells. Just at daylight she could make out the
Arkansas right in front of her in the dim gray of the early morning,
not very far off. On the west, the Raton Mountains loomed up like
a great pile of blue clouds, the sight of which cheered her; for she
know'd she would soon reach the Trail.
"It wasn't quite noon when she struck the Santa Fe Trail. When she
got there, looking to the east, she saw in the distance, not more
than three miles away, a large caravan coming, and then, almost wild
with delight, she dismounted, sot down on the grass, and waited for
it to arrive. In less than an hour, the train come up to where she
was, and as good luck would have it, it happened to be an American
outfit, going to Taos with merchandise. As soon as the master of
the caravan seen her setting on the prairie, he rid up ahead of the
wagons, and she told him her story. He was a kind-hearted man;
had the train stop right there on the bank of the river, though he
wasn't half through his day's drive, so as to make her comfortable
as possible, and give her something to eat; for she was 'bout
played out. He bought the Ingin pony, giving her thirty dollars
for it, and after she had rested for some time, the caravan moved out.
She rid in one of the wagons, on a bed of blankets, and the next
evening arrived at Bent's Old Fort. There she found women-folks,
who cared for her and nussed her; for she was dreadfully sore and
tired after her long ride. Then she was hired to cook, meaning to
work until she'd earned enough to take her back to Pennsylvany,
to her mother's, where she had started for when the Ingins attackted
the train.
"Next morning the caravan went on to Mora, and after we'd bid good-by
to Mrs. Dale and Paul, before which I give the boy two hundred dollars
for himself, me, Thorpe, and Curtis pulled out with our team north
for Frenchman's Creek, and I never felt so miserable before nor since
as I did parting with the kid that morning. I hain't never seen him
since; but he must be nigh forty now. Mebby he went into the war and
was killed; mebby he got to be a general, but I hain't forgot him."
Uncle John knocked the ashes out of his pipe, and without saying
another word went into the tent. In a few moments the camp was as
quiet as a country village on Sunday, excepting the occasional howling
of a hungry wolf down in the timbered recesses of the Washita, or the
crackling and sputtering of the signal fires on the hilltops.
In a few days afterward, we were camping on Hackberry Creek, in the
Indian Territory. We had been living on wild turkey, as before for
some time, and still longed for a change. At last one of my hunters
succeeded in bagging a dozen or more quails. Late that evening,
when my cook brought the delicious little birds, beautifully spitted
and broiled on peeled willow twigs, into my tent, I passed one to
Uncle John. Much to the surprise of every one, he refused. He said,
"Boys, I don't eat no quail!"
I remonstrated with the venerable guide; said to him, "You are making
a terrible mistake, Uncle John. Tomorrow I expect to leave here, and
as we are going directly away from the buffalo country, we don't know
when we shall strike fresh meat again. You'd better try one," and
I again proffered one of the birds.
"Boys," said he again, "I don't tech quail; I hain't eat one for
more than twenty years. One of the little cusses saved my life once,
and I swore right thar and then that I would starve first; and I have
kept my oath, though I've seen the time mighty often sence I could
a killed 'em with my quirt, when all I had to chaw on for four days
was the soles of a greasy pair of old moccasins.
"Well, boys, it's a good many years ago--in June, if I don't disremember,
1847. We was a coming in from way up in Cache le Poudre and from
Yellowstone Lake, whar we'd been a trapping for two seasons. We was
a working our way slowly back to Independence, Missouri, where we was
a going to get a new outfit. Let's see, there was me, and a man by
the name of Boyd, and Lew Thorp--Lew was a working for Colonel Boone
at the time--and two more men, whose names I disremember now, and a
nigger wench we had for a cook. We had mighty good luck, and had
a big pile of skins; and the Indians never troubled us till we got
down on Pawnee Bottom, this side of Pawnee Rock. We all of us had
mighty good ponies, but Thorp had a team and wagon, which he was
driving for Colonel Boone.
"We had went into camp on Pawnee Bottom airly in the afternoon, and
I told the boys to look out for Ingins--for I knowed ef we was to have
any trouble with them it would be somewhere in that vicinity. But we
didn't see a darned redskin that night, nor the sign of one.
"The wolves howled considerable, and come pretty close to the fire
for the bacon rinds we'd throwed away after supper.
"You see the buffalo was scurse right thar then--it was the wrong
time o' year. They generally don't get down on to the Arkansas
till about September, and when they're scurse the wolves and coyotes
are mighty sassy, and will steal a piece of bacon rind right out of
the pan, if you don't watch 'em. So we picketed our ponies a little
closer before we turned in, and we all went to sleep except one,
who sort o' kept watch on the stock.
"I was out o' my blankets mighty airly next morning, for I was kind
o' suspicious. I could always tell when Ingins was prowling around,
and I had a sort of present'ment something was going to happen
--I didn't like the way the coyotes kept yelling--so I rested kind o'
oneasy like, and was out among the ponies by the first streak o'
daylight.
"Pretty soon I seed Thorp and Boyd crawl out o' their blankets, too,
and I called their attention to the buffalo, which was still feeding
undisturbed.
"We'd been kind o' scurse of fresh meat for a couple of weeks--ever
since we left the Platte--except a jack-rabbit or cottontail, and I
knowed the boys would be wanting to get a quarter or two of a good
fat cow, if we could find one in the herd, so that was the reason
I pointed 'em out to 'em.
"The dew, you see, was mighty heavy, and the grass in the bottom
was as wet as if it had been raining for a month, and I didn't care
to go down whar the buffalo was just then--I knowed we had plenty
of time, and as soon as the sun was up it would dry right off. So I
got on to one of the ponies and led the others down to the spring
near camp to water them while the wench was a getting breakfast, and
some o' the rest o' the outfit was a fixing the saddles and greasing
the wagon.
"Just as I was coming back--it had growed quite light then--I seed Boyd
and Thorp start out from camp with their rifles and make for the
buffalo; so I picketed the ponies, gets my rifle, and starts off too.
"By the time I'd reached the edge of the bottom, Thorp and Boyd was
a crawling up on to a young bull way off to the right, and I lit out
for a fat cow I seen bunched up with the rest of the herd on the left.
"The grass was mighty tall on some parts of the Arkansas bottom in them
days, and I got within easy shooting range without the herd seeing me.
"The buffalo was now between me and Thorp and Boyd, and they was
furtherest from camp. I could see them over the top of the grass
kind o' edging up to the bull, and I kept a crawling on my hands and
knees toward the cow, and when I got about a hundred and fifty yards
of her, I pulled up my rifle and drawed a bead.
"Just as I was running my eyes along the bar'l, a darned little quail
flew right out from under my feet and lit exactly on my front sight
and of course cut off my aim--we didn't shoot reckless in those days;
every shot had to tell, or a man was the laughing-stock for a month
if he missed his game.
"I shook the little critter off and brought up my rifle again when,
durn my skin, if the bird didn't light right on to the same place;
at the same time my eyes grow'd kind o' hazy-like and in a minute
I didn't know nothing.
"When I come to, the quail was gone, I heerd a couple of rifle shots,
and right in front of where the bull had stood and close to Thorp and
Boyd, half a dozen Ingins jumped up out o' the tall grass and, firing
into the two men, killed Thorp instantly and wounded Boyd.
"He and me got to camp--keeping off the Ingins, who knowed I was loaded--
when we, with the rest of the outfit, drove the red devils away.
"They was Apaches, and the fellow that shot Thorp was a half-breed
nigger and Apache. He scalped Thorp and carred off the whole upper
part of his skull with it. He got Thorp's rifle and bullet-pouch too,
and his knife.
"We buried Thorp in the bottom there, and some of the party cut their
names on the stones that they covered his body up with, to keep the
coyotes from eating up his bones.
"Boyd got on to the river with us all right, and I never heerd of him
after we separated at Booneville. We pulled out soon after the
Indians left, but we didn't get no buffalo-meat.
"You see, boys, if I'd a fired into that cow, the devils would a
had me before I could a got a patch on my ball--didn't have no
breech-loaders in them days, and it took as much judgment to know
how to load a rifle properly as it did to shoot it.
Uncle John stuck to his text, I believe, until he died, and you
could never disabuse his mind of the idea that the quail lighting
on his rifle was not a special interposition of Providence.
Only four years after he told his story, in 1872, one of the newly
established settlers, living a few miles west of Larned on Pawnee
Bottom, having observed in one of his fields a singular depression,
resembling an old grave, determined to dig down and see if there was
any special cause for the strange indentation on his land.
Uncle John was in one of his garrulous moods that night, and as we
were not by any means tired of hearing the veteran trapper talk,
without much urging he told us the following tale:--
"Well, boys, thirty years ago, beaver, mink, and otter was found in
abundacious quantities on all the streams in the Rocky Mountains.
The trade in them furs was a paying business, for the little army
of us fellows called trappers. They ain't any of 'em left now,
no mor'n the animals we used to hunt. We had to move about from
place to place, just as if we was so many Ingins. Sometimes we'd
construct little cabins in the timber, or a dugout where the game
was plenty, where we'd stay maybe for a month or two, and once in
a while--though not often--a whole year.
"The Ingins was our mortal enemies; they'd get a scalp from our
fellows occasionally, but for every one they had of ours we had
a dozen of theirs.
"In the summer of 1846, there was a little half dugout, half cabin,
opposite the mouth of Frenchman's Creek, put up by Bill Thorpe,
Al Boyd, and Rube Stevens. Bill and Al was men grown, and know'd
more 'bout the prairies and timber than the Ingins themselves.
They'd hired out to the Northwest Fur Company when they was mere kids,
and kept on trapping ever since. Rube--'Little Rube' as all the
old men called him--was 'bout nineteen, and plumb dumb; he could hear
well enough though, for he wasn't born that way. When he was seventeen
his father moved from his farm in Pennsylvany, to take up a claim
in Oregon, and the whole family was compelled to cross the plains
to get there; for there wasn't no other way. While they was camped
in the Bitter-Root valley one evening, just 'bout sundown, a party
of Blackfeet surprised the outfit, and massacred all of them but Rube.
They carried him off, kept him as a slave, and, to make sure of him,
cut out his tongue at the roots. But some of the women who wasn't
quite so devilish as their husbands, and who took pity on him, went
to work and cured him of his awful wound. He was used mighty mean
by the bucks of the tribe, and made up his mind to get away from them
or kill himself; for he could not live under their harsh treatment.
After he'd been with them for mor'n a year, the tribe had a terrible
battle with the Sioux, and in the scrimmage Rube stole a pony and
lit out. He rode on night and day until he came across the cabin
of the two trappers I have told you 'bout, and they, of course,
took the poor boy in and cared for him.
"Rube was a splendid shot with the rifle, and he swore to himself
that he would never leave the prairies and do nothing for the rest
of his life but kill Ingins, who had made him a homeless orphan,
and so mutilated him.
"After Rube had been with Boyd and Thorpe a year, they was all one
day in the winter examining their traps which was scattered 'long
the stream for miles. After re-baiting them, they concluded to hunt
for meat, which was getting scarce at the cabin; they let Rube go
down to the creek where it widened out lake-like, to fish through
a hole in the ice, and Al and Bill took their rifles and hunted in
the timber for deer. They all got separated of course, Rube being
furtherest away, while Al and Bill did not wander so far from each
other that they could not be heard if one wanted his companion.
"Al shot a fat black-tail deer, and just as he was going to stoop
down to cut its throat, Bill yelled out to him:--
"'Drop everything Al, for God's sake, and let's make for the dugout;
they're coming, a whole band of Sioux!'
"'If we can get to the cabin,' replied Al, 'we can keep off the whole
nation. I wonder where Rube is? I hope he'll get here and save
his scalp.'
"At this instant, poor Rube dashed up to them, an Ingin close upon
his tracks; he had unfortunately forgotten to take his rifle with
him when he went to the creek, and now he was at the mercy of the
savage; at least both he and his pursuer so thought. But before
the Ingin had fairly uttered his yell of exultation, Al who with
Bill had held his rifle in readiness for an emergency, lifted the
red devil off his feet, and he fell dead without ever knowing what
had struck him.
"Rube, thus delivered from a sudden death, ran at the top of his
speed with his two friends for the cabin, for, if they could reach it,
they did not fear a hundred paint-bedaubed savages.
"Luckily they arrived in time. Where they lived was part dugout and
part cabin. It was about ten feet high, and right back of it was
a big ledge of rock, which made it impossible for any one to get
into it from that side. The place had no door; they did not dare
to put one there when it was built, for they were likely to be
surprised at any moment by a prowling band, so the only entrance was
a square hole in the roof, through which one at a time had to crawl
to enter.
"The boys got inside all right just as the Ingins came a yelling up.
Bill looked out of a hole in the wall and counted thirty of the
devils, and said at once: 'Off with your coats; don't let them have
anything to catch hold of but our naked bodies if they get in, and
we can handle ourselves better.'
"Rube he took an axe, and stood right under the hole in the roof,
so that if any of the devils got in he could brain them. In a minute
five rifles cracked; for the Ingins was pretty well armed for them
times, and their bullets rattled agin the logs like hail agin a tent.
Some of 'em was on top the roof by this time, and soon the leader of
the party, a big painted devil, thrust his ugly face into the hole;
but he had hardly got a good look before Bill dropped him by a
well-directed shot and he tumbled in on the floor.
"'You darned fool,' said Bill, as he saw the effect of his shot;
'did you think we was asleep?'
"There was one opening that served for air, and a savage, seeing
the boys had forgotten to barricade it, tried to push himself
through, an' not succeeding, tried to back out, but at that instant
Bill caught him by the wrist--Bill was a powerful man--and picking up
a beaver-trap that laid on the floor, actually beat his brains
out with it.
"While this circus was going on inside, three more of the Ingins got
on the roof and wrenched off a couple of the logs that covered it;
but in a minute they came tumbling down and lay dead on the floor.
"'Howl, you red devils,' said Bill, as the Ingins commenced their
awful yelling when they saw their comrades fall into the room.
'Don't you know, you blame fools, you've fell in with experienced
hands at the shooting business?'
"Spat! Something hit Al, and he was the first wounded, but it was
only a scratch, and he kept right on attending to business.
"'By gosh! look at Rube, will you?' said Al. The dumb boy had in
his grasp the very chief of the band, who had just then discovered
the hole in the roof made by the three Ingins who had passed in
their checks for their impudence, and was trying his best to push
himself down. Rube had made a strike at him with an axe, but the
edge was turned aside, and the savage was getting the better of
the boy; he had grappled Rube by the hair and one arm, and they was
flying 'round like a wild cat and a hound. Bill tried three times
to sink his knife into the old chief, but there was such a cavortin'
in the wrastle between him and the boy, he was afraid to try any more,
for fear it might hit Rube instead. Suddenly the Ingin fell to the
floor as dead as a trapped beaver what's been drowned; Rube had
struck his buckhorn-handled hunting-knife right into the heart of
the brute.
"'Set him agin the hole in the side of the building,' said Bill;
'he ain't fit for nothing else than to stop a gap'; so Rube set him
agin the hole, and pinned him there with half a dozen knives what
was lying round loose.
"Just as they had fastened the dead body of the old chief to the
side of the cabin, a perfect shower of bullets came rattling round
like a hailstorm. 'All right, let's have your waste lead,' said Bill.
"'A few more of these dead Ingins and we can make a regular fort of
this old cabin; we want two for that chunk,' said Al, as he pointed
with his rifle to a large gap on the west side of the wall; but
before he had fairly got the words out of his mouth, two of the
attacking party jumped down into the room. Al, being a regular giant,
as soon as they landed, surprised them by seizing one with each hand
by the throat, and he actually held them at arm's-length till he had
squeezed the very life out of them, and they both fell corpses.
"While Al was performing his two-Ingin act, a great light burst into
the cabin, and by the time he had choked his enemies to death, he saw,
while the Ingins outside gave a terrible yell of exultation, that
they had fired the place.
"They had reckoned onluckily; a wild war-whoop greeted the flying men
as they reached the edge of the forest, and without being able to use
their arms, they were taken prisoners. Bill and Al, fastened with
their backs against each other, and Little Rube by himself, were
bound to separate trees, but not so far apart that they could not
speak to each other, and some of the Ingins began to gather sticks
and pile them around the trees.
"'What are they going to do with us?' anxiously inquired Bill of Al.
"'Roast us, you bet,' replied the other. 'They'll find me tough
enough, anyhow.'
"'Well, it isn't the most pleasant one, you can gamble on that,'
said Al, turning his looks toward Bill; 'but see what the devils
are doing to poor Rube.'
"Bill cast his eyes in the direction of the dumb boy, who was fastened
to a small pine, about a hundred feet distant. Standing directly
in front of it was a gigantic Ingin, flourishing his scalping-knife
within an inch of Rube's head, trying to make the boy flinch.
But the young fellow merely scowled at him in a rage, his muscles
never quivering for an instant.
"While the men were trying to console each other, two of the savages,
who had gone away for a short time, returned, bearing the carcass
of the deer that Al had killed in the morning, and commenced to cut
it up. They had made several small fires, and roasting the meat
before them, began to gorge themselves, Indian fashion, with the
savoury morsels. The men were awfully hungry, too, but not a mouthful
did they get of their own game.
"The Ingins were more'n an hour feasting, while their prisoners kept
a looking for some help to get 'em out of the scrape they was in.
"'Bout a mile down the creek, me and six other trappers had a camp,
and that morning, being scarce of meat, we all went a hunting.
We had killed two or three elk and was 'bout going back to camp with
our game, when we heard firing, and supposed it was a party of hunters,
like ourselves, so we did not pay any attention to it at first; but
when it kept up so long, and there was such a constant volley, I told
our boys it might be a scrimmage with a party of red devils, and we
concluded to go and see.
"We left our elk where they were, and started in the direction of
the shooting, taking mighty good care not to be surprised ourselves.
We crept carefully on, and a little before sundown seen a camp-fire
burning in the timber quite a smart piece ahead of us. We stopped
then, and Ike Pettet and myself crept on cautiously on our hands and
knees through the brush to learn what the fire meant. In a little
while we seen it was an Ingin camp, and we counted twenty-two
warriors seated 'round their fires a eating as unconcernedly as if
we warn't nowhere near 'em. We didn't feel like tackling so many,
so just as we was 'bout to crawl away and leave 'em in ondisturbed
possession of their camp, we heard some parties talking in English.
Then we pricked up our ears and listened mighty interested I tell you.
Looking 'round, we seen the men tied to the trees and the wood piled
against 'em, and then we knowed what was up. We had to be mighty
wary, for if we snapped a twig even, it was all day with us and
the prisoners too; so we dragged ourselves back, and after getting
out of sound of the Ingins, we just got up and lit out mighty lively
for the place we'd left our companions. We met them coming slowly
on 'bout two miles from the Ingin camp, and telling 'em what was up
we started to help the trappers what the devils was agoing to burn.
We wasn't half so long in getting at the camp as Ike and me was
in going, and we soon come within good range for our rifles.
"We'd heard the firing of the fight at the cabin just in time; and
as we cut the rawhide strings that bound the fellows to the trees,
Ike, who was a right fine shot and had killed three at one time,
said: 'I always like to get two or three of the red devils in a line
before I pull the trigger; it saves lead.'
"Then we all went back to our camp and made a night of it, feasting
on the elk we had killed, and talking over the wonderful escape of
the boys and Little Rube."
CHAPTER XVI.
KIT CARSON.
Of the famous men whose lives are so interwoven with the history
of the Old Santa Fe Trail that the story of the great highway is
largely made up of their individual exploits and acts of bravery,
it has been my fortune to have known nearly all intimately, during
more than a third of a century passed on the great plains and in
the Rocky Mountains.
First of all, Christopher, or Kit, Carson, as he is familiarly known
to the world, stands at the head and front of celebrated frontiersmen,
trappers, scouts, guides, and Indian fighters.
I knew him well through a series of years, to the date of his death
in 1868, but I shall confine myself to the events of his remarkable
career along the line of the Trail and its immediate environs.
In 1826 a party of Santa Fe traders passing near his father's home
in Howard County, Missouri, young Kit, who was then but seventeen
years old, joined the caravan as hunter. He was already an expert
with the rifle, and thus commenced his life of adventure on the
great plains and in the Rocky Mountains.
In the early days of the commerce of the prairies, Carson was the
hunter at Bent's Fort for a period of eight years. There were about
forty men employed at the place; and when the game was found in
abundance in the mountains, it was a relatively easy task and just
suited to his love of sport, but when it grew scarce, as it often
did, his prowess was tasked to its utmost to keep the forty mouths
from crying for food. He became such an unerring shot with the
rifle during that time that he was called the "Nestor of the Rocky
Mountains." His favourite game was the buffalo, although he killed
countless numbers of other animals.
The party set out for the stronghold of the savages, and rode night
and day on the trail of the murderers, hoping to surprise them and
recapture the women and children; but so much time had been wasted
in delays, that Carson feared they would only find the mutilated
bodies of the poor captives. In a few days after leaving Las Vegas,
the retreat of the savages was discovered in the fastness of the
mountains, where they had fortified themselves in such a manner that
they could resist ten times the number of their pursuers. Carson,
as soon as he saw them, without a second's hesitation, and giving
a characteristic yell, dashed in, expecting, of course, that the men
would follow him; but they only stood in gaping wonderment at his
bravery, not daring to venture after him. He did not discover his
dilemma until he had advanced so far alone that escape seemed
impossible. But here his coolness, which always served him in the
moment of supreme danger, saved his scalp. As the savages turned
on him, he threw himself on the off side of his horse, Indian fashion,
for he was as expert in a trick of that kind as the savages themselves,
and rode back to the little command. He had six arrows in his horse
and a bullet through his coat!
The Indians in those days were poorly armed, and did not long
follow up the pursuit after Carson; for, observing the squad of
mounted Mexicans, they retreated to the top of a rocky prominence,
from which point they could watch every movement of the whites.
Carson was raging at the apathy, not to say cowardice, of the men
who had sent for him to join them, but he kept his counsel to himself;
for he was anxious to save the captured women and children. He talked
to the men very earnestly, however, exhorting them not to flinch
in the duty they had come so far to perform, and for which he had
come at their call. This had the desired effect; for he induced
them to make a charge, which was gallantly performed, and in such
a brave manner that the Indians fled, scarcely making an effort to
defend themselves. Five of their number were killed at the furious
onset of the Mexicans, but unfortunately, as he anticipated, only
the murdered corpses of the women and children were the result of
the victory.
One of the two soldiers whose turn it had been to stand guard that
morning was discovered to have been asleep when the alarm of Indians
was given, and Carson at once administered the Indian method of
punishment, making the man wear the dress of a squaw for that day.
Then going on, he arrived at Santa Fe, where he turned over his
little command.
The members of the caravan who were perfectly trustworthy were then
ordered to corral the rest of the conspirators, thirty-five in number,
and they were driven out of camp, with the exception of Fox, the
leader, whom Carson conveyed to Taos. He was imprisoned for several
months, but as a crime in intent only could be proved against him,
and as the adobe walls of the house where he was confined were not
secure enough to retain a man who desired to release himself, he was
finally liberated, and cleared out.
The traders were profuse in their thanks to Carson for his timely
interference, but he refused every offer of remuneration. On their
return to Santa Fe from St. Louis, however, they presented him with
a magnificent pair of pistols, upon whose silver mounting was an
inscription commemorating his brave deed and the gratitude of the
donors.
The following summer was spent in a visit to St. Louis, and early
in the fall he returned over the Trail, arriving at the Cheyenne
village on the Upper Arkansas without meeting with any incident
worthy of note. On reaching that point, he learned that the Indians
had received a terrible affront from an officer commanding a detachment
of United States troops, who had whipped one of their chiefs; and
that consequently the whole tribe was enraged, and burning for revenge
upon the whites. Carson was the first white man to approach the
place since the insult, and so many years had elapsed since he was
the hunter at Bent's Fort, and so grievously had the Indians been
offended, that his name no longer guaranteed safety to the party
with whom he was travelling, nor even insured respect to himself,
in the state of excitement existing in the village. Carson, however,
deliberately pushed himself into the presence of a war council which
was just then in session to consider the question of attacking the
caravan, giving orders to his men to keep close together, and guard
against a surprise.
The Indians departed, and Carson went on his way; but there were
hundreds of savages in sight on the sand hills, and, though they
made no attack, he was well aware that he was in their power, nor
had they abandoned the idea of capturing his train. His coolness
and deliberation kept his men in spirit, and yet out of the whole
fifteen, which was the total number of his force, there were only two
or three on whom he could place any reliance in case of an emergency.
When the train camped for the night, the wagons were corralled, and
the men and mules all brought inside the circle. Grass was cut with
sheath-knives and fed to the animals, instead of their being picketed
out as usual, and as large a guard as possible detailed. When the
camp had settled down to perfect quiet, Carson crawled outside it,
taking with him a Mexican boy, and after explaining to him the danger
which threatened them all, told him that it was in his power to save
the lives of the company. Then he sent him on alone to Rayedo,
a journey of nearly three hundred miles, to ask for an escort of
United States troops to be sent out to meet the train, impressing
upon the brave little Mexican the importance of putting a good many
miles between himself and the camp before morning. And so he started
him, with a few rations of food, without letting the rest of his
party know that such measures were necessary. The boy had been in
Carson's service for some time, and was known to him as a faithful
and active messenger, and in a wild country like New Mexico, with
the outdoor life and habits of its people, such a journey was not
an unusual occurrence.
Carson now returned to the camp, to watch all night himself, and
at daybreak all were on the Trail again. No Indians made their
appearance until nearly noon, when five warriors came galloping up
toward the train. As soon as they came close enough to hear his
voice, Carson ordered them to halt, and going up to them, told how
he had sent a messenger to Rayedo the night before to inform the
troops that their tribe were annoying him, and that if he or his men
were molested, terrible punishment would be inflicted by those who
would surely come to his relief. The savages replied that they
would look for the moccasin tracks, which they undoubtedly found,
and the whole village passed away toward the hills after a little
while, evidently seeking a place of safety from an expected attack
by the troops.
Early in the spring of 1865, Carson was ordered, with three companies,
to put a stop to the depredations of marauding bands of Cheyennes,
Kiowas, and Comanches upon the caravans and emigrant outfits travelling
the Santa Fe Trail. He left Fort Union with his command and marched
over the Dry or Cimarron route to the Arkansas River, for the purpose
of establishing a fortified camp at Cedar Bluffs, or Cold Spring,
to afford a refuge for the freight trains on that dangerous part of
the Trail. The Indians had for some time been harassing not only
the caravans of the citizen traders, but also those of the government,
which carried supplies to the several military posts in the Territory
of New Mexico. An expedition was therefore planned by Carson to
punish them, and he soon found an opportunity to strike a blow near
the adobe fort on the Canadian River. His force consisted of the
First Regiment of New Mexican Volunteer Cavalry and seventy-five
friendly Indians, his entire command numbering fourteen commissioned
officers and three hundred and ninety-six enlisted men. With these
he attacked the Kiowa village, consisting of about one hundred and
fifty lodges. The fight was a very severe one, and lasted from
half-past eight in the morning until after sundown. The savages,
with more than ordinary intrepidity and boldness, made repeated
stands against the fierce onslaughts of Carson's cavalrymen, but
were at last forced to give way, and were cut down as they stubbornly
retreated, suffering a loss of sixty killed and wounded. In this
battle only two privates and one noncommissioned officer were killed,
and one non-commissioned officer and thirteen privates, four of whom
were friendly Indians, wounded. The command destroyed one hundred
and fifty lodges, a large amount of dried meats, berries, buffalo-robes,
cooking utensils, and also a buggy and spring-wagon, the property
of Sierrito,[50] the Kiowa chief.
"I saw," said Kit, "two big wolves sneaking about, one of them quite
close to us. Gordon, one of my men, wanted to fire his rifle at it,
but I did not let him, for fear he would hit a dog. I admit that
I had a sort of an idea that those wolves might be Indians; but when
I noticed one of them turn short around, and heard the clashing of
his teeth as he rushed at one of the dogs, I felt easy then, and was
certain that they were wolves sure enough. But the red devil fooled
me, after all, for he had two dried buffalo bones in his hands under
the wolfskin, and he rattled them together every time he turned to
make a dash at the dogs! Well, by and by we all dozed off, and it
wasn't long before I was suddenly aroused by a noise and a big blaze.
I rushed out the first thing for our mules, and held them. If the
savages had been at all smart, they could have killed us in a trice,
but they ran as soon as they fired at us. They killed one of my men,
putting five bullets in his body and eight in his buffalo-robe.
The Indians were a band of Sioux on the war-trail after a band of
Snakes, and found us by sheer accident. They endeavoured to ambush
us the next morning, but we got wind of their little game and killed
three of them, including the chief."
His remains, after reposing for some time at Fort Lyon, were taken
to Taos, so long his home in New Mexico, where an appropriate monument
was erected over them. In the Plaza at Santa Fe, his name also
appears cut on a cenotaph raised to commemorate the services of the
soldiers of the Territory. As an Indian fighter he was matchless.
The identical rifle used by him for more than thirty-five years,
and which never failed him, he bequeathed, just before his death,
to Montezuma Lodge, A. F. & A. M., Santa Fe, of which he was a member.
The grassy mound, over which there was no stone to record the name
of its occupant, covered the remains of the last of his class, a type
vanished forever, for the border is a thing of the past; and upon
the gentle breeze of that delightful morning, like the droning of
bees in a full flowered orchard, was wafted to my ears the hum of
Kansas City's civilization, only three or four miles distant, in all
of which I was sure there was nothing that would have been congenial
to the old frontiersman.
At one time early in the '60's, while the engineers of the proposed
Union Pacific Railway were temporarily in Denver, then an insignificant
mushroom-hamlet, they became somewhat confused as to the most
practicable point in the range over which to run their line. After
debating the question, they determined, upon a suggestion from some
of the old settlers, to send for Jim Bridger, who was then visiting
in St. Louis. A pass, via the overland stage, was enclosed in a
letter to him, and he was urged to start for Denver at once, though
nothing of the business for which his presence was required was told
him in the text.
In about two weeks the old man arrived, and the next morning, after
he had rested, asked why he had been sent for from such a distance.
The engineers then began to explain their dilemma. The old mountaineer
waited patiently until they had finished, when, with a look of disgust
on his withered countenance, he demanded a large piece of paper,
remarking at the same time,--
"I could a told you fellers all that in St. Louis, and saved you
the expense of bringing me out here."
He was handed a sheet of manilla paper, used for drawing the details
of bridge plans. The veteran pathfinder spread it on the ground
before him, took a dead coal from the ashes of the fire, drew a rough
outline map, and pointing to a certain peak just visible on the
serrated horizon, said,--
"There's where you fellers can cross with your road, and nowhere else,
without more diggin' an' cuttin' than you think of."
"H---l! Bill, you can't fool me! That's old John Smith."
At one time many years ago, during Bridger's first visit to St. Louis,
then a relatively small place, a friend accidentally came across him
sitting on a dry-goods box in one of the narrow streets, evidently
disgusted with his situation. To the inquiry as to what he was doing
there all alone, the old man replied,--
"I've been settin' in this infernal canyon ever sence mornin', waitin'
for some one to come along an' invite me to take a drink. Hundreds
of fellers has passed both ways, but none of 'em has opened his head.
I never seen sich a onsociable crowd!"
General Gatlin,[51] who was graduated from West Point in the early
'30's, and commanded Fort Gibson in the Cherokee Nation over sixty
years ago, told me that he remembered Bridger very well; and had
once asked the old guide whether he had ever been in the great canyon
of the Colorado River.
"Yes, sir," replied the mountaineer, "I have, many a time. There's
where the oranges and lemons bear all the time, and the only place
I was ever at where the moon's always full!"
He told me and also many others, at various times, that in the winter
of 1830 it began to snow in the valley of the Great Salt Lake, and
continued for seventy days without cessation. The whole country was
covered to a depth of seventy feet, and all the vast herds of buffalo
were caught in the storm and died, but their carcasses were perfectly
preserved.
"When spring came, all I had to do," declared he, "was to tumble 'em
into Salt Lake, an' I had pickled buffalo enough for myself and the
whole Ute Nation for years!"
Bridger said of Sir George that he was a bold, dashing, and successful
hunter, and an agreeable gentleman. His habit was to lie in bed until
about ten or eleven o'clock in the morning, then he took a bath,
ate his breakfast, and set out, generally alone, for the day's hunt,
and it was not unusual for him to remain out until ten at night,
seldom returning to the tents without augmenting the catalogue of
his beasts. His dinner was then served, to which he generally
extended an invitation to Bridger, and after the meal was over, and
a few glasses of wine had been drunk, he was in the habit of reading
from some book, and eliciting from Bridger his comments thereon.
His favourite author was Shakespeare, which Bridger "reckin'd was
too highfalutin" for him; moreover he remarked, "thet he rather
calcerlated that thar big Dutchman, Mr. Full-stuff, was a leetle
too fond of lager beer," and thought it would have been better for
the old man if he had "stuck to Bourbon whiskey straight."
A man whose one act had made him awe-inspiring was Belzy Dodd.
Uncle Dick Wooton, in relating the story, says: "I don't know what
his first name was, but Belzy was what we called him. His head was
as bald as a billiard ball, and he wore a wig. One day while we
were all at Bent's Fort, while there were a great number of Indians
about, Belzy concluded to have a bit of fun. He walked around, eying
the Indians fiercely for some time, and finally, dashing in among
them, he gave a series of war-whoops which discounted a Comanche yell,
and pulling off his wig, threw it down at the feet of the astonished
and terror-stricken red men.
"The savages thought the fellow had jerked off his own scalp, and not
one of them wanted to stay and see what would happen next. They left
the fort, running like so many scared jack-rabbits, and after that
none of them could be induced to approach anywhere near Dodd."
Jim Baker was another noted mountaineer and hunter of the same era as
Carson, Bridger, Wooton, Hobbs, and many others. Next to Kit Carson,
Baker was General Fremont's most valued scout.
He told General Marcy, who was a warm friend of his, that after one
season in which he had been unusually successful in accumulating a
large amount of valuable furs, from the sale of which he had realized
the handsome sum of nine thousand dollars, he resolved to abandon his
mountain life, return to the settlements, buy a farm, and live
comfortably during the remainder of his days. He accordingly made
ready to leave, and was on the eve of starting when a friend invited
him to visit a monte-bank which had been organized at the rendezvous.
He was easily led away, determined to take a little social amusement
with his old comrade, whom he might never see again, and followed him;
the result of which was that the whiskey circulated freely, and the
next morning found Baker without a cent of money; he had lost
everything. His entire plans were thus frustrated, and he returned
to the mountains, hunting with the Indians until he died.
Jim Baker's opinions of the wild Indians of the great plains and
the mountains were very decided: "That they are the most onsartinist
varmints in all creation, an' I reckon thar not more'n half human;
for you never seed a human, arter you'd fed an' treated him to the
best fixin's in your lodge, jis turn round and steal all your horses,
or ary other thing he could lay his hands on. No, not adzactly.
He would feel kind o' grateful, and ask you to spread a blanket in
his lodge ef you ever came his way. But the Injin don't care shucks
for you, and is ready to do you a lot of mischief as soon as he quits
your feed. No, Cap.," he said to Marcy when relating this, "it's not
the right way to make 'em gifts to buy a peace; but ef I war gov'nor
of these United States, I'll tell what I'd do. I'd invite 'em all
to a big feast, and make 'em think I wanted to have a talk; and as
soon as I got 'em together, I'd light in and raise the har of half
of 'em, and then t'other half would be mighty glad to make terms
that would stick. That's the way I'd make a treaty with the dog'oned
red-bellied varmints; and as sure as you're born, Cap., that's the
only way."
He was very fond of his squaw and children, and usually treated
them kindly; only when he was in liquor did he at all maltreat them.
Once he came over into New Mexico, where General Marcy was stationed
at the time, and determined that for the time being he would cast
aside his leggings, moccasins, and other mountain dress, and wear
a civilized wardrobe. Accordingly, he fitted himself out with one.
When Marcy met him shortly after he had donned the strange clothes,
he had undergone such an entire change that the general remarked
he should hardly have known him. He did not take kindly to this,
and said: "Consarn these store butes, Cap.; they choke my feet like
h---l." It was the first time in twenty years that he had worn
anything on his feet but moccasins, and they were not ready for the
torture inflicted by breaking in a new pair of absurdly fitting
boots. He soon threw them away, and resumed the softer foot-gear
of the mountains.
Baker was a famous bear hunter, and had been at the death of many
a grizzly. On one occasion he was setting his traps with a comrade
on the head waters of the Arkansas, when they suddenly met two young
grizzly bears about the size of full-grown dogs. Baker remarked
to his friend that if they could "light in and kill the varmints"
with their knives, it would be a big thing to boast of. They both
accordingly laid aside their rifles and "lit in," Baker attacking
one and his comrade the other. The bears immediately raised
themselves on their haunches, and were ready for the encounter.
Baker ran around, endeavouring to get in a blow from behind with his
long knife; but the young brute he had tackled was too quick for
him, and turned as he went around so as always to confront him
face to face. He knew if he came within reach of his claws, that
although young, he could inflict a formidable wound; moreover, he was
in fear that the howls of the cubs would bring the infuriated mother
to their rescue, when the hunters' chances of getting away would
be slim. These thoughts floated hurriedly through his mind, and
made him desirous to end the fight as soon as he could. He made
many vicious lunges at the bear, but the animal invariably warded
them off with his strong fore legs like a boxer. This kind of
tactics, however, cost the lively beast several severe cuts on his
shoulders, which made him the more furious. At length he took the
offensive, and with his month frothing with rage, bounded toward
Baker, who caught and wrestled with him, succeeding in giving him
a death-wound under the ribs.
While all this was going on, his comrade had been furiously engaged
with the other bear, and by this time had become greatly exhausted,
with the odds decidedly against him. He entreated Baker to come to
his assistance at once, which he did; but much to his astonishment,
as soon as he entered the second contest his comrade ran off, leaving
him to fight the battle alone. He was, however, again victorious,
and soon had the satisfaction of seeing his two antagonists stretched
out in front of him, but as he expressed it, "I made my mind up I'd
never fight nary nother grizzly without a good shootin'-iron in my paws."
"It seems that they had an altercation in the morning, which ended
in a challenge, when they ran to their cabins, seized their revolvers,
and from the doors, which were only about a hundred yards from each
other, fired. Then they retired to their cabins, took a drink of
whiskey, reloaded their revolvers, and again renewed the combat.
This strange duel had been going on for several hours when I arrived,
but, fortunately for them, the whiskey had such an effect on their
nerves that their aim was very unsteady, and none of the shots had
as yet taken effect.
"I took away Baker's revolvers, telling him how ashamed I was to
find a man of his usually good sense making such a fool of himself.
He gave in quietly, saying that he knew I was his friend, but did not
think I would wish to have him take insults from a cowardly Frenchman.
He was a born leader of men, and was known from the Yellowstone to
the Rio Grande, from Santa Fe to Independence, and in St. Louis.
From the latter town he ran away when a boy with a party of trappers,
and himself became one of the most successful of that hardy class.
The woman who bore him had played in her childhood beneath the palm
trees of Africa; his father was a native of France, and went to the
banks of the wild Mississippi of his own free will, but probably
also from reasons of political interest to his government.
CHAPTER XVII.
UNCLE DICK WOOTON.
Immediately after Kit Carson, the second wreath of pioneer laurels,
for bravery and prowess as an Indian fighter, and trapper, must be
conceded to Richens Lacy Wooton, known first as "Dick," in his
younger days on the plains, then, when age had overtaken him,
as "Uncle Dick."
Born in Virginia, his father, when he was but seven years of age,
removed with his family to Kentucky, where he cultivated a tobacco
plantation. Like his predecessor and lifelong friend Carson,
young Wooton tired of the monotony of farming, and in the summer
of 1836 made a trip to the busy frontier town of Independence,
Missouri, where he found a caravan belonging to Colonel St. Vrain
and the Bents, already loaded, and ready to pull out for the fort
built by the latter, and named for them.
Every man had to take his turn in standing guard, and the first night
that it fell to young Wooton was at Little Cow Creek, in the Upper
Arkansas valley. Nothing had occurred thus far during the trip
to imperil the safety of the caravan, nor was any attack by the
savages looked for.
Wooton's post comprehended the whole length of one side of the corral,
and his instructions were to shoot anything he saw moving outside
of the line of mules farthest from the wagons. The young sentry
was very vigilant. He did not feel at all sleepy, but eagerly
watched for something that might possibly come within the prescribed
distance, though not really expecting such a contingency.
About two o'clock he heard a slight noise, and saw something moving
about, sixty or seventy yards from where he was lying on the ground,
to which he had dropped the moment the strange sound reached his ears.
Of course, his first thoughts were of Indians, and the more he peered
through the darkness at the slowly moving object, the more convinced
he was that it must be a blood-thirsty savage.
He rose to his feet and blazed away, the shot rousing everbody, and
all came rushing with their guns to learn what the matter was.
Wooton told the wagon-master that he had seen what he supposed was
an Indian trying to slip up to the mules, and that he had killed him.
Some of the men crept very circumspectly to the spot where the
supposed dead savage was lying, while young Wooton remained at his
post eagerly waiting for their report. Presently he heard a voice
cry out: "I'll be d---d ef he hain't killed 'Old Jack!'"
"Old Jack" was one of the lead mules of one of the wagons. He had
torn up his picket-pin and strayed outside of the lines, with the
result that the faithful brute met his death at the hands of the
sentry. Wooton declared that he was not to be blamed; for the animal
had disobeyed orders, while he had strictly observed them![53]
At Pawnee Fork, a few days later, the caravan had a genuine tussle
with the Comanches. It was a bright moonlight night, and about two
hundred of the mounted savages attacked them. It was a rare thing
for Indians to begin a raid after dark, but they swept down on the
unsuspecting teamsters, yelling like a host of demons. They were
armed with bows and arrows generally, though a few of them had
fusees.[54] They received a warm greeting, although they were not
expected, the guard noticing the savages in time to prevent a stampede
of the animals, which evidently was the sole purpose for which they
came, as they did not attempt to break through the corral to get at
the wagons. It was the mules they were after. They charged among
the men, vainly endeavouring to frighten the animals and make them
break loose, discharging showers of arrows as they rode by. The camp
was too hot for them, however, defended as it was by old teamsters
who had made the dangerous passage of the plains many times before,
and were up to all the Indian tactics. They failed to get a single
mule, but paid for their temerity by leaving three of their party
dead, just where they had been tumbled off their horses, not even
having time to carry the bodies off, as they usually do.
Wooton passed some time during the early days of his career at
Bent's Fort, in 1836-37. He was a great favourite with both of
the proprietors, and with them went to the several Indian villages,
where he learned the art of trading with the savages.
The winters of the years mentioned were noted for the incursions
of the Pawnees into the region of the fort. They always pretended
friendship for the whites, when any of them were inside of its sacred
precincts, but their whole manner changed when they by some stroke
of fortune caught a trapper or hunter alone on the prairie or in
the foot-hills; he was a dead man sure, and his scalp was soon
dangling at the belt of his cowardly assassins. Hardly a day passed
without witnessing some poor fellow running for the fort with a band
of the red devils after him; frequently he escaped the keen edge of
their scalping-knife, but every once in a while a man was killed.
At one time, two herders who were with their animals within fifty
yards of the fort, going out to the grazing ground, were killed and
every hoof of stock run off.
A party from the fort, comprising only eight men, among whom was
young Wooton, made up for lost time with the Indians, at the crossing
of Pawnee Fork, the same place where he had had his first fight.
The men had set out from the fort for the purpose of meeting a small
caravan of wagons from the East, loaded with supplies for the Bents'
trading post. It happened that a band of sixteen Pawnees were
watching for the arrival of the train, too.[55] Wooton's party were
well mounted, while the Pawnees were on foot, and although the savages
were two to one, the advantage was decidedly in favour of the whites.
The Indians were armed with bows and arrows only, and while it was
an easy matter for the whites to keep out of the way of the shower
of missiles which the Indians commenced to hurl at them, the latter
became an easy prey to the unerring rifles of their assailants,
who killed thirteen out of the sixteen in a very short time.
The remaining three took French leave of their comrades at the
beginning of the conflict, and abandoning their arms rushed up to
the caravan, which was just appearing over a small divide, and gave
themselves up. The Indian custom was observed in their case,[56]
although it was rarely that any prisoners were taken in these
conflicts on the Trail. Another curious custom was also followed.[57]
When the party encamped they were well fed, and the next morning
supplied with rations enough to last them until they could reach one
of their villages, and sent off to tell their head chief what had
become of the rest of his warriors.
As he expected, the Utes followed on his trail, and came up with his
little party on a prairie where there was not the slightest chance
to ambush or hide. They had to fight, because they could not help
it, but resolved to sell their lives as dearly as possible, as the
Utes outnumbered them twenty to one; Wooton having only eight men
with him, including the Shawnee.
The pack-animals, of which they had a great many, loaded with the
goods intended for the savages, were corralled in a circle, inside
of which the men hurried themselves and awaited the first assault
of the foe. In a few moments the Utes began to circle around the
trappers and open fire. The trappers promptly responded, and they
made every shot count; for all of the men, not even excepting the
Shawnee, were experts with the rifle. They did not mind the arrows
which the Utes showered upon them, as few, if any, reached to where
they stood. The savages had a few guns, but they were of the poorest
quality; besides, they did not know how to handle them then as they
learned to do later, so their bullets were almost as harmless as
their arrows.
The trappers made terrible havoc among the Utes' horses, killing
so many of them that the savages in despair abandoned the fight and
gave Wooton and his men an opportunity to get away, which they did
as rapidly as possible.
The Raton Pass, through which the Old Trail ran, was a relatively
fair mountain road, but originally it was almost impossible for
anything in the shape of a wheeled vehicle to get over the narrow
rock-ribbed barrier; saddle horses and pack-mules could, however,
make the trip without much difficulty. It was the natural highway to
southeastern Colorado and northeastern New Mexico, but the overland
coaches could not get to Trinidad by the shortest route, and as the
caravans also desired to make the same line, it occurred to Uncle
Dick that he would undertake to hew out a road through the pass,
which, barring grades, should be as good as the average turnpike.
He could see money in it for him, as he expected to charge toll,
keeping the road in repair at his own expense, and he succeeded in
procuring from the legislatures of Colorado and New Mexico charters
covering the rights and privileges which he demanded for his project.
In the spring of 1866, Uncle Dick took up his abode on the top of
the mountains, built his home, and lived there until two years ago,
when he died at a very ripe old age.
The old trapper had imposed on himself anything but an easy task in
constructing his toll-road. There were great hillsides to cut out,
immense ledges of rocks to blast, bridges to build by the dozen, and
huge trees to fell, besides long lines of difficult grading to engineer.
Eventually Uncle Dick's road was a fact, but when it was completed,
how to make it pay was a question that seriously disturbed his mind.
The method he employed to solve the problem I will quote in his
own words: "Such a thing as a toll-road was unknown in the country
at that time. People who had come from the States understood,
of course, that the object of building a turnpike was to enable
the owner to collect toll from those who travelled over it, but I
had to deal with a great many people who seemed to think that they
should be as free to travel over my well-graded and bridged roadway
as they were to follow an ordinary cow path.
"I may say that I had five classes of patrons to do business with.
There was the stage company and its employees, the freighters, the
military authorities, who marched troops and transported supplies
over the road, the Mexicans, and the Indians.
"With the stage company, the military authorities, and the American
freighters I had no trouble. With the Indians, when a band came
through now and then, I didn't care to have any controversy about
so small a matter as a few dollars toll! Whenever they came along,
the toll-gate went up, and any other little thing I could do to
hurry them on was done promptly and cheerfully. While the Indians
didn't understand anything about the system of collecting tolls,
they seemed to recognize the fact that I had a right to control
the road, and they would generally ride up to the gate and ask
permission to go through. Once in a while the chief of a band would
think compensation for the privilege of going through in order, and
would make me a present of a buckskin or something of that sort.
"My Mexican patrons were the hardest to get along with. Paying for
the privilege of travelling over any road was something they were
totally unused to, and they did not take to it kindly. They were
pleased with my road and liked to travel over it, until they came
to the toll-gate. This they seemed to look upon as an obstruction
that no man had a right to place in the way of a free-born native
of the mountain region. They appeared to regard the toll-gate as
a new scheme for holding up travellers for the purpose of robbery,
and many of them evidently thought me a kind of freebooter, who ought
to be suppressed by law.
"Holding these views, when I asked them for a certain amount of money,
before raising the toll-gate, they naturally differed with me very
frequently about the propriety of complying with the request.
The murdered man was a Mexican, and his slayers were Mexicans too.
The trouble originated at Las Vegas, where the privates had been
bound and gagged, by order of the corporal, for creating a disturbance
at a fandango the evening before.
The name of the corporal was Juan Torres, and he came down to Uncle
Dick's one evening while the command was encamped on the top of the
mountain, accompanied by the three privates, who had already plotted
to kill him, though he had not the slightest suspicion of it.
Uncle Dick, in telling the story, said: "They left at an early hour,
going in an opposite direction from their camp, and I closed my doors
soon after, for the night. They had not been gone more than half
an hour, when I heard them talking not far from my house, and a few
seconds later I heard the half-suppressed cry of a man who has
received his death-blow.
"I had gone to bed, and lay for a minute or two thinking whether I
should get up and go to the rescue or insure my own safety by
remaining where I was.
"In the morning, when I got up, I found the dead body of the corporal
stretched across Raton Creek, not more than a hundred yards from my house.
"As I surmised, he had been struck with a heavy club or stone, and
it was at that time that I heard his cry. After that his brains
had been beaten out, and the body left where I had found it.
"I at once notified Captain Haley of the occurrence, and identified
the men who had been in company with the corporal, and who were
undoubtedly his murderers.
"They were taken into custody, and made a confession, in which they
stated that one of their number had stood at my door on the night
of the murder to shoot me if I had ventured out to assist the
corporal. Two of the scoundrels were hung afterward at Las Vegas,
and the third sent to prison for life."
The corporal was buried near where the soldiers were encamped at
the time of the tragedy, and it is his lonely grave which frequently
attracts the attention of the passengers on the Atchison, Topeka,
and Santa Fe trains, just before the Raton tunnel is reached, as
they travel southward.
In 1866-67 the Indians broke out, infesting all the most prominent
points of the Old Santa Fe Trail, and watching an opportunity to
rob and murder, so that the government freight caravans and the
stages had to be escorted by detachments of troops. Fort Larned
was the western limit where these escorts joined the outfits going
over into New Mexico.
When the coaches began to travel over Uncle Dick's toll-road, his
house was made a station, and he had many stage stories. He said:--
"One of the most daring and successful stage robberies that I remember
was perpetrated by two men, when the east-bound coach was coming up
on the south side of the Raton Mountains, one day about ten o'clock
in the forenoon.
"On the morning of the same day, a little after sunrise, two rather
genteel-looking fellows, mounted on fine horses, rode up to my
house and ordered breakfast. Being informed that breakfast would
be ready in a few minutes, they dismounted, hitched their horses
near the door, and came into the house.
"I knew then, just as well as I do now, they were robbers, but I
had no warrant for their arrest, and I should have hesitated about
serving it if I had, because they looked like very unpleasant men
to transact that kind of business with.
"Each of them had four pistols sticking in his belt and a repeating
rifle strapped on to his saddle. When they dismounted, they left
their rifles with the horses, but walked into the house and sat down
at the table, without laying aside the arsenal which they carried
in their belts.
"They had little to say while eating, but were courteous in their
behaviour, and very polite to the waiters. When they had finished
breakfast, they paid their bills, and rode leisurely up the mountain.
"It did not occur to me that they would take chances on stopping
the stage in daylight, or I should have sent some one to meet the
incoming coach, which I knew would be along shortly, to warn the
driver and passengers to be on the lookout for robbers.
"It turned out, however, that a daylight robbery was just what they
had in mind, and they made a success of it.
"About halfway down the New Mexico side of the mountain, where the
canyon is very narrow, and was then heavily wooded on either side,
the robbers stopped and waited for the coach. It came lumbering
along by and by, neither the driver nor the passengers dreaming of
a hold-up.
"The first intimation they had of such a thing was when they saw
two men step into the road, one on each side of the stage, each of
them holding two cocked revolvers, one of which was brought to bear
on the passengers and the other on the driver, who were politely
but very positively told that they must throw up their hands without
any unnecessary delay, and the stage came to a standstill.
"There were four passengers in the coach, all men, but their hands
went up at the same instant that the driver dropped his reins and
struck an attitude that suited the robbers.
"Then, while one of the men stood guard, the other stepped up to
the stage and ordered the treasure box thrown off. This demand was
complied with, and the box was broken and rifled of its contents,
which fortunately were not of very great value.
"The passengers were compelled to hand out their watches and other
jewelry, as well as what money they had in their pockets, and then
the driver was directed to move up the road. In a minute after
this the robbers had disappeared with their booty, and that was
the last seen of them by that particular coach-load of passengers.
"The men who planned and executed that robbery were two cool,
level-headed, and daring scoundrels, known as 'Chuckle-luck' and
'Magpie.' They were killed soon after this occurrence, by a member
of their own band, whose name was Seward. A reward of a thousand
dollars had been offered for their capture, an this tempted Seward
to kill them, one night when they were asleep in camp.
"He then secured a wagon, into which he loaded the dead robbers,
and hauled them to Cimarron City, where he turned them over to the
authorities and received his reward."
Among the Arapahoes Wooton was called "Cut Hand," from the fact
that he had lost two fingers on his left hand by an accident in his
childhood. The tribe had the utmost veneration for the old trapper,
and he was perfectly safe at any time in their villages or camps;
it had been the request of a dying chief, who was once greatly
favoured by Wooton, that his warriors should never injure him although
the nation might be at war with all the rest of the whites in the world.
Uncle Dick died a few seasons ago, at the age of nearly ninety.
He was blind for some time, but a surgical operation partly restored
his sight, which made the old man happy, because he could look again
upon the beautiful scenery surrounding his mountain home, really
the grandest in the entire Raton Range. The Atchison, Topeka, and
Santa Fe Railroad had one of its freight locomotives named "Uncle
Dick," in honour of the veteran mountaineer, past whose house it
hauled the heavy-laden trains up the steep grade crossing into the
valley beyond. At the time of its baptism, now fifteen or sixteen
years ago, it was the largest freight engine in the world.
Old Bill Williams was another character of the early days of the
Trail, and was called so when Carson, Uncle Dick Wooton, and Maxwell
were comparatively young in the mountains. He was, at the time of
their advent in the remote West, one of the best known men there,
and had been famous for years as a hunter and trapper. Williams was
better acquainted with every pass in the Rockies than any other man
of his time, and only surpassed by Jim Bridger later. He was with
General Fremont on his exploring expedition across the continent;
but the statement of the old trappers, and that of General Fremont,
in relation to his services then, differ widely. Fremont admits
Williams' knowledge of the country over which he had wandered to have
been very extensive, but when put to the test on the expedition,
he came very near sacrificing the lives of all. This was probably
owing to Williams' failing intellect, for when he joined the great
explorer he was past the meridian of life. Now the old mountaineers
contend that if Fremont had profited by the old man's advice, he would
never have run into the deathtrap which cost him three men, and
in which he lost all his valuable papers, his instruments, and the
animals which he and his party were riding. The expedition had
followed the Arkansas River to its source, and the general had
selected a route which he desired to pursue in crossing the mountains.
It was winter, and Williams explained to him that it was perfectly
impracticable to get over at that season. The general, however,
ignoring the statement, listened to another of his party, a man who
had no such experience but said that he could pilot the expedition.
Before they had fairly started, they were caught in one of the most
terrible snowstorms the region had ever witnessed, in which all their
horses and mules were literally frozen to death. Then, when it was
too late, they turned back, abandoning their instruments, and able
only to carry along a very limited stock of food. The storm continued
to rage, so that even Williams failed to prevent them from getting
lost, and they wandered about aimlessly for many days before they
luckily arrived at Taos, suffering seriously from exhaustion and
hunger. Three of the men were frozen to death on the return trip,
and the remaining fifteen were little better than dead when Uncle
Dick Wooton happened to run across them and piloted them into the
village. It was immediately after this disaster that the three most
noted men in the mountains--Carson, Maxwell, and Dick Owens--became the
guides of the pathfinder, with whom he had no trouble, and to whom
he owed more of his success than history has given them credit for.
Among the many wild ideas he had imbibed from his long association
with the Indians, was faith in their belief in the transmigration
of souls. He used so to worry his brain for hours cogitating upon
this intricate problem concerning a future state, that he actually
pretended to know exactly the animal whose place he was destined to
fill in the world after he had shaken off this mortal human coil.
Uncle Dick Wooton told how once, when he, Old Bill Williams, and
many other trappers, were lying around the camp-fire one night,
the strange fellow, in a preaching style of delivery, related to them
all how he was to be changed into a buck elk and intended to make
his pasture in the very region where they then were. He described
certain peculiarities which would distinguish him from the common
run of elk, and was very careful to caution all those present never
to shoot such an animal, should they ever run across him.
He, like Carson, was rather under the average stature, red-faced,
and lacking much of being an Adonis, but whole-souled, and as quick
in his movements as an antelope.
The Mexican Don and the American became fast friends, the latter
making his home with his newly found acquaintance at the beautiful
ranch in the mountains, where they played the r�le of a modern Damon
and Pythias.
The fascinating American had brought with him from his home in one
of the New England States a large amount of money, for his parents
were rich, and spared no indulgence to their only son. He very soon
unwisely made Espinosa his confidant, and told him of the wealth
he possessed.
One night after the American had retired to his chamber, adjoining
that of his host, he was surprised, shortly after he had gone to bed,
by discovering a man standing over him, whose hand had already grasped
the buckskin bag under his pillow which contained a considerable
portion of his gold and silver. He sprang from his couch and fired
his pistol at random in the darkness at the would-be robber.
Espinosa, for it was he, was wounded slightly, and, being either
enraged or frightened, he stabbed with his keen-pointed stiletto,
which all Mexicans then carried, the young man whom he had invited
to become his guest, and the blade entered the American's heart,
killing him instantly.
Tobin knew that at the time there was but one of Espinosa's followers
with him, as he had watched them both for some days, waiting for an
opportunity to get the drop on them. To capture the pair of outlaws
alive never entered his thoughts; he was as cautious as brave, and
to get them dead was much safer and easier; so he crept up to the
grove on his belly, Indian fashion, and lying behind the cover of
a friendly log, waited until the noted desperado stood up, when he
pulled the trigger of his never-erring rifle, and Espinosa fell dead.
A second shot quickly disposed of his companion, and the old trapper's
mission was accomplished.
James Hobbs, among all the men of whom I have presented a hurried
sketch, had perhaps a more varied experience than any of his colleagues.
During his long life on the frontier, he was in turn a prisoner among
the savages, and held for years by them; an excellent soldier in
the war with Mexico; an efficient officer in the revolt against
Maximilian, when the attempt of Napoleon to establish an empire on
this continent, with that unfortunate prince at its head, was defeated;
an Indian fighter; a miner; a trapper; a trader, and a hunter.
Hobbs was born in the Shawnee nation, on the Big Blue, about
twenty-three miles from Independence, Missouri. His early childhood
was entrusted to one of his father's slaves. Reared on the eastern
limit of the border, he very soon became familiar with the use of
the rifle and shot-gun; in fact, he was the principal provider of
all the meat which the family consumed.
They arrived at the crossing of the Santa Fe Trail over Pawnee Fork
without special adventure, but there they had the usual tussle with
the savages, and Hobbs killed his first Indian. Two of the traders
were pierced with arrows, but not seriously hurt, and the Pawnees
--the tribe which had attacked the outfit--were driven away discomfited,
not having been successful in stampeding a single animal.
When the party reached the Caches, on the Upper Arkansas, a smoke
rising on the distant horizon, beyond the sand hills south of the
river, made them proceed cautiously; for to the old plainsmen, that
far-off wreath indicated either the presence of the savages, or a
signal to others at a greater distance of the approach of the trappers.
The next morning, nothing having occurred to delay the march, buffalo
began to appear, and Hobbs killed three of them. A cow, which he
had wounded, ran across the Trail in front of the train, and Hobbs
dashed after her, wounding her with his pistol, and then she started
to swim the river. Hobbs, mad at the jeers which greeted him from
the men at his missing the animal, started for the last wagon,
in which was his rifle, determined to kill the brute that had
enraged him. As he was riding along rapidly, Bent cried out to him,--
"Don't try to follow that cow; she is going straight for that smoke,
and it means Injuns, and no good in 'em either."
"But I'll get her," answered Hobbs, and he called to his closest
comrade, John Baptiste, a boy of about his own age, to go and get
his pack-mule and come along. "All right," responded John; and
together the two inexperienced youngsters crossed the river against
the protests of the veteran leader of the party.
After a chase of about three miles, the boys came up with the cow,
but she turned and showed fight. Finally Hobbs, by riding around her,
got in a good shot, which killed her. Jumping off their animals,
both boys busied themselves in cutting out the choice pieces for
their supper, packed them on the mule, and started back for the train.
But it had suddenly become very dark, and they were in doubt as to
the direction of the Trail.
Soon night came on so rapidly that neither could they see their own
tracks by which they had come, nor the thin fringe of cottonwoods
that lined the bank of the stream. Then they disagreed as to which
was the right way. John succeeded in persuading Hobbs that he was
correct, and the latter gave in, very much against his own belief
on the subject.
They travelled all night, and when morning came, were bewilderingly
lost. Then Hobbs resolved to retrace the tracks by which, now that
the sun was up, he saw that they had been going south, right away
from the Arkansas. Suddenly an immense herd of buffalo, containing
at least two thousand, dashed by the boys, filling the air with the
dust raised by their clattering hoofs, and right behind them rode
a hundred Indians, shooting at the stampeded animals with their arrows.
"Get into that ravine!" shouted Hobbs to his companion. "Throw away
that meat, and run for your life!"
It was too late; just as they arrived at the brink of the hollow,
they looked back, and close behind them were a dozen Comanches.
The savages rode up, and one of the party said in very good English,
"How d' do?"
Hobbs had some of the desired article, and he was not long in handing
it over to his newly found friend.
Both of the boys were escorted to the temporary camp of the savages,
but the original number of their captors was increased to over a
thousand before they arrived there. They were supplied with some
dried buffalo-meat, and then taken to the lodge of Old Wolf, the
head chief of the tribe.
About noon of the next day, after the dispersion of the council,
the boys were informed that if they were not Texans, would behave
themselves, and not attempt to run away, they might stay with the
Indians, who would not kill them; but a string of dried scalps was
pointed out, hanging on a lodge pole, of some Mexicans whom they
had captured and put to herding their ponies, and who had tried to
get away. They succeeded in making a few miles; the Indians chased
them, after deciding in council, that, if caught, only their scalps
were to be brought back. The moral of this was that the same fate
awaited the boys if they followed the example of the foolish Mexicans.
Hobbs had excellent sense and judgment, and he knew that it would
be the height of folly for him and Baptiste, mere boys, to try and
reach either Bent's Fort or the Missouri River, not having the
slightest knowledge of where they were situated.
At Bent's Fort Hobbs went out trapping under the leadership of Kit
Carson, and they became lifelong friends. In a short time Hobbs
earned the reputation of being an excellent mountaineer, trapper,
and as an Indian fighter he was second to none, his education among
the Comanches having trained him in all the strategy of the savages.
After going through the Mexican War with an excellent record, Hobbs
wandered about the country, now engaged in mining in old Mexico, then
fighting the Apaches under the orders of the governor of Chihuahua,
and at the end of the campaign going back to the Pacific coast,
where he entered into new pursuits. Sometimes he was rich, then as
poor as one can imagine. He returned to old Mexico in time to become
an active partisan in the revolt which overthrew the short-lived
dynasty of Maximilian, and was present at the execution of that
unfortunate prince. Finally he retired to the home of his childhood
in the States, where he died a few months ago, full of years and honours.
He was born in Iowa, in 1845, and when barely seven years old his
father emigrated to Kansas, then far remote from civilization.
When Cody first reported there for his responsible duty, a large camp
of the Kiowas and Comanches was established within sight of the fort,
whose warriors had not as yet put on their war-paint, but were
evidently restless and discontented under the restraint of their
chiefs. Soon those leading men, Satanta, Lone Wolf, Satank, and
others of lesser note, grew rather impudent and haughty in their
deportment, and they were watched with much concern. The post was
garrisoned by only two companies of infantry and one of cavalry.
"I accordingly saddled up my mule and set out for Fort Larned.
I proceeded on uninterruptedly until I got about halfway between
the two posts, when, at Pawnee Rock, I was suddenly jumped by about
forty Indians, who came dashing up to me, extending their hands
and saying, 'How! How!' They were some of the Indians who had been
hanging around Fort Larned in the morning. I saw they had on their
war-paint, and were evidently now out on the war-path.
"My first impulse was to shake hands with them, as they seemed so
desirous of it. I accordingly reached out my hand to one of them,
who grasped it with a tight grip, and jerked me violently forward;
then pulled my mule by the bridle, and in a moment I was completely
surrounded. Before I could do anything at all, they had seized my
revolvers from the holsters, and I received a blow on the head from
a tomahawk which nearly rendered me senseless. My gun, which was
lying across the saddle, was snatched from its place, and finally
the Indian who had hold of the bridle started off toward the Arkansas
River, leading the mule, which was being lashed by the other Indians,
who were following. The savages were all singing, yelling, and
whooping, as only Indians can do, when they are having their little
game all their own way. While looking toward the river, I saw on
the opposite side an immense village moving along the bank, and then
I became convinced that the Indians had left the post and were now
starting out on the war-path. My captors crossed the stream with me,
and as we waded through the shallow water they continued to lash the
mule and myself. Finally they brought me before an important-looking
body of Indians, who proved to be the chiefs and principal warriors.
I soon recognized old Satanta among them, as well as others whom
I knew, and supposed it was all over with me.
"The veteran liar was now beating me at my own game of lying, but
I was very glad, as it was in my favour. I did not let him suspect
that I doubted his veracity, but I remarked that it was a rough way
to treat friends. He immediately ordered his young men to give
back my arms, and scolded them for what they had done. Of course,
the sly old dog was now playing it very fine, as he was anxious
to get possession of the cattle, with which he believed there was
a 'heap' of soldiers coming. He had concluded it was not best to
fight the soldiers if he could get the cattle peaceably.
"Another council was held by the chiefs, and in a few minutes old
Satanta came and asked me if I would go to the river and bring the
cattle down to the opposite side, so that they could get them.
I replied, 'Of course; that's my instruction from General Hazen.'
"Satanta said I must not feel angry at his young men, for they had
only been acting in fun. He then inquired if I wished any of his men
to accompany me to the cattle herd. I replied that it would be better
for me to go alone, and then the soldiers could keep right on to
Fort Larned, while I could drive the herd down on the bottom. Then
wheeling my mule around, I was soon recrossing the river, leaving old
Satanta in the firm belief that I had told him a straight story, and
that I was going for the cattle which existed only in my imagination.
"I hardly knew what to do, but thought that if I could get the river
between the Indians and myself, I would have a good three-quarters of
a mile the start of them, and could then make a run for Fort Larned,
as my mule was a good one.
"Thus far my cattle story had panned out all right; but just as I
reached the opposite bank of the river, I looked behind me and saw
that ten or fifteen Indians, who had begun to suspect something
crooked, were following me. The moment that my mule secured a good
foothold on the bank, I urged him into a gentle lope toward the place
where, according to my statement, the cattle were to be brought.
Upon reaching a little ridge and riding down the other side out of
view, I turned my mule and headed him westward for Fort Larned.
I let him out for all that he was worth, and when I came out on a
little rise of ground, I looked back and saw the Indian village in
plain sight. My pursuers were now on the ridge which I had passed
over, and were looking for me in every direction.
"Presently they spied me, and seeing that I was running away, they
struck out in swift pursuit, and in a few minutes it became painfully
evident they were gaining on me. They kept up the chase as far as
Ash Creek, six miles from Fort Larned. I still led them half a mile,
as their horses had not gained much during the last half of the race.
My mule seemed to have gotten his second wind, and as I was on the
old road, I played the spurs and whip on him without much cessation;
the Indians likewise urged their steeds to the utmost.
"Finally, upon reaching the dividing ridge between Ash Creek and
Pawnee Fork, I saw Fort Larned only four miles away. It was now
sundown, and I heard the evening gun. The troops of the small
garrison little dreamed there was a man flying for his life and
trying to reach the post. The Indians were once more gaining on me,
and when I crossed the Pawnee Fork two miles from the post, two or
three of them were only a quarter of a mile behind me. Just as I
gained the opposite bank of the stream, I was overjoyed to see some
soldiers in a government wagon only a short distance off. I yelled
at the top of my voice, and riding up to them, told them that the
Indians were after me.
"'Denver Jim,' a well-known scout, asked me how many there were, and
upon my informing him that there were about a dozen, he said: 'Let's
drive the wagon into the trees, and we'll lay for 'em.' The team
was hurriedly driven among the trees and low box-elder bushes, and
there secreted.
"We did not have to wait long for the Indians, who came dashing up,
lashing their ponies, which were panting and blowing. We let two
of them pass by, but we opened a lively fire on the next three or
four, killing two of them at the first crack. The others following
discovered that they had run into an ambush, and whirling off into
the brush, they turned and ran back in the direction whence they
had come. The two who had passed by heard the firing and made their
escape. We scalped the two that we had killed, and appropriated
their arms and equipments; then, catching their ponies, we made our
way into the Post."
CHAPTER XVIII.
MAXWELL'S RANCH.
One of the most interesting and picturesque regions of all New Mexico
is the immense tract of nearly two million acres known as Maxwell's
Ranch, through which the Old Trail ran, and the title to which was
some years since determined by the Supreme Court of the United States
in favour of an alien company.[59] Dead long ago, Maxwell belonged
to a generation and a class almost completely extinct, and the like
of which will, in all probability, never be seen again; for there
is no more frontier to develop them.
At the zenith of his influence and wealth, during the War of the
Rebellion, when New Mexico was isolated and almost independent of
care or thought by the government at Washington, he lived in a
sort of barbaric splendour, akin to that of the nobles of England
at the time of the Norman conquest.
His house was a palace when compared with the prevailing style of
architecture in that country, and cost an immense sum of money.
It was large and roomy, purely American in its construction, but the
manner of conducting it was strictly Mexican, varying between the
customs of the higher and lower classes of that curious people.
Frequently Maxwell and Carson would play the game of seven-up for
hours at a time, seated at one of the tables. Kit was usually the
victor, for he was the greatest expert in that old and popular
pastime I have ever met. Maxwell was an inveterate gambler, but
not by any means in a professional sense; he indulged in the hazard
of the cards simply for the amusement it afforded him in his rough
life of ease, and he could very well afford the losses which the
pleasure sometimes entailed. His special penchant, however, was
betting on a horse race, and his own stud comprised some of the
fleetest animals in the Territory. Had he lived in England he might
have ruled the turf, but many jobs were put up on him by unscrupulous
jockeys, by which he was outrageously defrauded of immense sums.
To this motley group, always under his feet, as it were, Maxwell was
ever passively gracious, although they were battening in idleness
on his prodigal bounty from year to year.
The sources of his wealth were his cattle, sheep, and the products
of his area of cultivated acres--barley, oats, and corn principally--
which he disposed of to the quartermaster and commissary departments
of the army, in the large military district of New Mexico.
His wool-clip must have been enormous, too; but I doubt whether he
could have told the number of animals that furnished it or the
aggregate of his vast herds. He had a thousand horses, ten thousand
cattle, and forty thousand sheep at the time I knew him well,
according to the best estimates of his Mexican relatives.
Maxwell was fond of travelling all over the Territory, his equipages
comprising everything in the shape of a vehicle, through all their
varieties, from the most plainly constructed buckboard to the
lumbering, but comfortable and expensive, Concord coach, mounted on
thorough braces instead of springs, and drawn by four or six horses.
He was perfectly reckless in his driving, dashing through streams,
over irrigating ditches, stones, and stumps like a veritable Jehu,
regardless of consequences, but, as is usually the fortune of such
precipitate horsemen, rarely coming to grief.
On the 4th of July, 1867, Maxwell, who owned an antiquated and rusty
six-pound field howitzer, suggested to the captain of the troop
stationed there the propriety of celebrating the day. So the old
piece was dragged from its place under a clump of elms, where it had
been hidden in the grass and weeds ever since the Mexican War probably,
and brought near the house. The captain and Maxwell acted the r�le
of gunners, the former at the muzzle, the latter at the breech;
the discharge was premature, blowing out the captain's eye and taking
off his arm, while Maxwell escaped with a shattered thumb. As soon
as the accident occurred, a sergeant was despatched to Fort Union on
one of the fastest horses on the ranch, the faithful animal falling
dead the moment he stopped in front of the surgeon's quarters, having
made the journey of fifty-five miles in little more than four hours.
The surgeon left the post immediately, arriving at Maxwell's late that
night, but in time to save the officer's life, after which he dressed
Maxwell's apparently inconsiderable wound. In a few days, however,
the thumb grew angry-looking; it would not yield to the doctor's
careful treatment, so he reluctantly decided that amputation was
necessary. After an operation was determined upon, I prevailed upon
Maxwell to come to the fort and remain with me, inviting Kit Carson
at the same time, that he might assist in catering to the amusement
of my suffering guest. Maxwell and Carson arrived at my quarters
late in the day, after a tedious ride in the big coach, and the
surgeon, in order to allow a prolonged rest on account of Maxwell's
feverish condition, postponed the operation until the following evening.
At Fort Union our mail arrived every morning by coach over the Trail,
generally pulling up at the sutler's store, whose proprietor was
postmaster, about daylight. While Maxwell and Kit were my guests,
I sauntered down after breakfast one morning to get my mail, and
while waiting for the letters to be distributed, happened to glance
at some papers lying on the counter, among which I saw a new periodical
--the _Day's Doings_, I think it was--that had a full-page illustration
of a scene in a forest. In the foreground stood a gigantic figure
dressed in the traditional buckskin; on one arm rested an immense
rifle; his other arm was around the waist of the conventional female
of such sensational journals, while in front, lying prone upon the
ground, were half a dozen Indians, evidently slain by the singular
hero in defending the impossibly attired female. The legend related
how all this had been effected by the famous Kit Carson. I purchased
the paper, returned with it to my room, and after showing it to
several officers who had called upon Maxwell, I handed it to Kit.
He wiped his spectacles, studied the picture intently for a few
seconds, turned round, and said: "Gentlemen, that thar may be true,
but I hain't got no recollection of it."
For some years previous to the discovery of gold in the mountains and
gulches of Maxwell's Ranch, it was known that copper existed in the
region; several shafts had been sunk and tunnels driven in various
places, and gold had been found from time to time, but was kept a
secret for many months. Its presence was at last revealed to Maxwell
by a party of his own miners, who were boring into the heart of
Old Baldy for a copper lead that had cropped out and was then lost.
Once when at the ranch I told Maxwell I should like to have a horse
to witness the novel sight. He immediately ordered a Mexican groom
to procure one; but I did not see the peculiar smile that lighted up
his face, as he whispered something to the man which I did not catch.
Presently the groom returned leading a magnificent gray, which I
mounted, Maxwell suggesting that I should ride down to the large
field and wait there until the herd arrived. I entered the great
corral, patting my horse on the neck now and then, to make him
familiar with my touch, and attempted to converse with some of the
chiefs, who were dressed in their best, painted as if for the
war-path, gaily bedecked with feathers and armed with rifles and
gaudily appointed bows and arrows; but I did not succeed very well
in drawing them from their normal reticence. The squaws, a hundred
of them, were sitting on the ground, their knives in hand ready for
the labour which is the fate of their sex in all savage tribes,
while their lords' portion of the impending business was to end with
the more manly efforts of the chase.
Suddenly a great cloud of dust rose on the trail from the mountains,
and on came the maddened animals, fairly shaking the earth with
their mighty tread. As soon as the gate was closed behind them,
and uttering a characteristic yell that was blood-curdling in its
ferocity, the Indians charged upon the now doubly frightened herd,
and commenced to discharge their rifles, regardless of the presence
of any one but themselves. My horse became paralyzed for an instant
and stood poised on his hind legs, like the steed represented in
that old lithographic print of Napoleon crossing the Alps; then taking
the bit in his teeth, he rushed aimlessly into the midst of the
flying herd, while the bullets from the guns of the excited savages
rained around my head. I had always boasted of my equestrian
accomplishments--I was never thrown but once in my life, and that was
years afterward--but in this instance it taxed all my powers to keep
my seat. In less than twenty minutes the last beef had fallen; and
the warriors, inflated with the pride of their achievement, rode
silently out of the field, leaving the squaws to cut up and carry
away the meat to their lodges, more than three miles distant, which
they soon accomplished, to the last quivering morsel.
As I rode leisurely back to the house, I saw Maxwell and Kit standing
on the broad porch, their sides actually shaking with laughter at
my discomfiture, they having been watching me from the very moment
the herd entered the corral. It appeared that the horse Maxwell
ordered the groom to bring me was a recent importation from St. Louis,
had never before seen an Indian, and was as unused to the prairies
and mountains as a street-car mule. Kit said that my mount reminded
him of one that his antagonist in a duel rode a great many years ago
when he was young. If the animal had not been such "a fourth-of-July"
brute, his opponent would in all probability have finished him, as he
was a splendid shot; but Kit fortunately escaped, the bullet merely
grazing him under the ear, leaving a scar which he then showed me.
One night Kit Carson, Maxwell, and I were up in the Raton Mountains
above the Old Trail, and having lingered too long, were caught above
the clouds against our will, darkness having overtaken us before we
were ready to descend into the valley. It was dangerous to undertake
the trip over such a precipitous and rocky trail, so we were compelled
to make the best of our situation. It was awfully cold, and as we
had brought no blankets, we dared not go to sleep for fear our fire
might go out, and we should freeze. We therefore determined to make
a night of it by telling yarns, smoking our pipes, and walking around
at times. After sitting awhile, Maxwell pointed toward the Spanish
Peaks, whose snow-white tops cast a diffused light in the heavens
above them, and remarked that in the deep canyon which separates them,
he had had one of the "closest calls" of his life, willingly complying
when I asked him to tell us the story.
"It was in 1847. I came down from Taos with a party to go to the
Cimarron crossing of the Santa Fe Trail to pick up a large herd of
horses for the United States Quartermaster's Department. We succeeded
in gathering about a hundred and started back with them, letting
them graze slowly along, as we were in no hurry. When we arrived
at the foot-hills north of Bent's Fort, we came suddenly upon the
trail of a large war-band of Utes, none of whom we saw, but from
subsequent developments the savages must have discovered us days
before we reached the mountains. I knew we were not strong enough
to cope with the whole Ute nation, and concluded the best thing for
us to do under the ticklish circumstances was to make a detour,
and put them off our trail. So we turned abruptly down the Arkansas,
intending to try and get to Taos in that direction, more than one
hundred and fifty miles around. It appeared afterward that the
Indians had been following us all the way. When we found this out,
some of the men believed they were another party, and not the same
whose trail we came upon when we turned down the river, but I always
insisted they were. When we arrived within a few days' drive of Taos,
we were ambushed in one of the narrow passes of the range, and had
the bloodiest fight with the Utes on record. There were thirteen
of us, all told, and two little children whom we were escorting to
their friends at Taos, having received them at the Cimarron crossing.
"While we were quietly taking our breakfast one morning, and getting
ready to pull out for the day's march, perfectly unsuspicious of the
proximity of any Indians, they dashed in upon us, and in less than
a minute stampeded all our stock--loose animals as well as those we
were riding. While part of the savages were employed in running off
the animals, fifty of their most noted warriors, splendidly mounted
and horribly painted, rushed into the camp, around the fire of which
the men and the little children were peacefully sitting, and,
discharging their guns as they rode up, killed one man and wounded
another.
"Terribly surprised as we were, it did not turn the heads of the old
mountaineers, and I immediately told them to make a break for a clump
of timber near by, and that we would fight them as long as one of us
could stand up. There we fought and fought against fearful odds,
until all were wounded except two. The little children were captured
at the beginning of the trouble and carried off at once. After a
while the savages got tired of the hard work, and, as is frequently
the case, went away of their own free will; but they left us in a
terrible plight. All were sore, stiff, and weak from their many wounds;
on foot, and without any food or ammunition to procure game with,
having exhausted our supply in the awfully unequal battle; besides,
we were miles from home, with every prospect of starving to death.
"We could not remain where we were, so as soon as darkness came on,
we started out to walk to some settlement. We dared not show
ourselves by daylight, and all through the long hours when the sun
was up, we were obliged to hide in the brush and ravines until night
overtook us again, and we could start on our painful march.
"We had absolutely nothing to eat, and our wounds began to fester,
so that we could hardly move at all. We should undoubtedly have
perished, if, on the third day, a band of friendly Indians of another
tribe had not gone to Taos and reported the fight to the commanding
officer of the troops there. These Indians had heard of our trouble
with the Utes, and knowing how strong they were, and our weakness,
surmised our condition, and so hastened to convey the bad news.
"A company of dragoons was immediately sent to our rescue, under the
guidance of Dick Wooton, who was and has ever been a warm personal
friend of mine. They came upon us about forty miles from Taos, and
never were we more surprised; we had become so starved and emaciated
that we had abandoned all hope of escaping what seemed to be our
inevitable fate.
"When the troops found us, we had only a few rags, our clothes having
been completely stripped from our bodies while struggling through
the heavy underbrush on our trail, and we were so far exhausted that
we could not stand on our feet. One more day, and we would have been
laid out.
CHAPTER XIX.
BENT'S FORTS.
The famous Bent brothers, William, George, Robert, and Charles, were
French-Canadian hunters and trappers, and had been employed almost
from boyhood, in the early days of the border, by the American Fur
Company in the mountains of the Northwest.
When at last the new station was completed, it was named Fort William,
in honour of Colonel William Bent, who was the leader of the family
and the most active trader among the four partners in the concern.
The colonel frequently made long trips to the remote villages of the
Arapahoes, Cheyennes, Kiowas, and Comanches, which were situated far
to the south and east, on the Canadian River and its large tributaries.
His miscellaneous assortment of merchandise he transported upon
pack-mules to the Indian rendezvous, bringing back to the fort the
valuable furs he had exchanged for the goods so eagerly coveted by
the savages. It was while on one of his trading expeditions to the
Cheyenne nation that the colonel married a young squaw of that tribe,
the daughter of the principal chief.
William Bent for his day and time was an exceptionally good man.
His integrity, his truthfulness on all occasions, and his remarkable
courage endeared him to the red and white man alike, and Fort William
prospered wonderfully under his careful and just management. Both
his brothers and St. Vrain had taken up their residence in Taos, and
upon the colonel devolved the entire charge of the busy establishment.
It soon became the most popular rendezvous of the mountaineers and
trappers, and in its immediate vicinity several tribes of Indians
took up their temporary encampment.
Leaving ten men in camp to get out stone for the new post,
Colonel Bent took a part of his outfit and went to a Kiowa
village, about two hundred miles southwest, and remained
there all winter, trading with the Kiowas and Comanches.
In the spring of 1853 he returned to Big Timbers, when
the construction of the new post was begun, and the work
continued until completed in the summer of 1854; and it
was used as a trading-post until the owner leased it to
the government in the autumn of 1859. Colonel Sedgwick had
been sent out to fight the Kiowas that year, and in the fall
a large quantity of commissary stores had been sent him.
Colonel Bent then moved up the river to a point just above
the mouth of the Purgatoire, and built several rooms of
cottonwood pickets, and there spent the winter. In the
spring of 1860, Colonel Sedgwick began the construction of
officers' buildings, company quarters, corrals, and stables,
all of stone, and named the place Fort Wise, in honour of
Governor Wise of Virginia. In 1861 the name was changed to
Fort Lyon, in honour of General Lyon, who was killed at the
battle of Wilson Creek, Missouri. In the spring of 1866,
the Arkansas River overflowed its banks, swept up into the
fort, and, undermining the walls, rendered it untenable for
military purposes. The camp was moved to a point twenty
miles below, and the new Fort Lyon established. The old
post was repaired, and used as a stage station by Barlow,
Sanderson, and Company, who ran a mail, express, and
passenger line between Kansas City and Santa Fe.
The contiguous region to Fort William was in the early days a famous
hunting-ground. It abounded in nearly every variety of animal
indigenous to the mountains and plains, among which were the panther
--the so-called California lion of to-day--the lynx, erroneously termed
wild cat, white wolf, prairie wolf, silver-gray fox, prairie fox,
antelope, buffalo, gray, grizzly and cinnamon bears, together with
the common brown and black species, the red deer and the black-tail,
the latter the finest venison in the world. Of birds there were
wild turkeys, quail, and grouse, besides an endless variety of the
smaller-sized families, not regarded as belonging to the domain of
game in a hunter's sense. It was a veritable paradise, too, for the
trappers. Its numerous streams and creeks were famous for beaver,
otter, and mink.
The fort was six hundred and fifty miles west of Fort Leavenworth,
in latitude thirty-eight degrees and two minutes north, and longitude
one hundred and three degrees and three minutes west, from Greenwich.
The exterior walls of the fort, whose figure was that of a parallelogram,
were fifteen feet high and four feet thick. It was a hundred and
thirty-five feet wide and divided into various compartments. On the
northwest and southeast corners were hexagonal bastions, in which
were mounted a number of cannon. The walls of the building served
as the walls of the rooms, all of which faced inwards on a plaza,
after the general style of Mexican architecture. The roofs of the
rooms were made of poles, on which was a heavy layer of dirt, as in
the houses of native Mexicans to-day. The fort possessed a billiard
table, that visitors might amuse themselves, and in the office was
a small telescope with a fair range of seven miles.
The walls were loopholed for musketry, and the entrance to the plaza,
or corral, was guarded by large wooden gates. During the war with
Mexico, the fort was headquarters for the commissary department,
and many supplies were stored there, though the troops camped below
on the beautiful river-bottom. In the centre of the corral, in the
early days when the place was a rendezvous of the trappers, a large
buffalo-robe press was erected. When the writer first saw the famous
fort, now over a third of a century ago, one of the cannon, that
burst in firing a salute to General Kearney, could be seen half
buried in the dirt of the plaza.
By barometrical measurements taken by the engineer officers of the
army at different times, the height of Bent's Fort above the ocean
level is approximately eight thousand nine hundred and fifty-eight
feet, and the fall of the Arkansas River from the fort to the great
bend of that stream, about three hundred and eleven miles east,
is seven feet and four-tenths per mile.
The Indians whose villages were located a few miles below the fort,
or at least the chief men of the various tribes, passed much of their
time within the shelter of the famous structure. They were bountifully
fed, and everything they needed furnished them. This was purely from
policy, however; for if their wishes were not gratified, their
hunters would not bring in their furs to trade. The principal chiefs
never failed to be present when a meal was announced as ready, and
however scarce provisions might be, the Indians must be fed.
The first farm in the fertile and now valuable lands of the valley of
the Rio de las Animas[60] was opened by the Bents. The area selected
for cultivation was in the beautiful bottom between the fort and the
ford, a strip about a mile in length, and from one hundred and fifty
to six hundred feet in width. Nothing could be grown without irrigation,
and to that end an acequia, as the Mexicans call the ditch through
which the water flows, was constructed, and a crop put in. Before
the enterprising projectors of the scheme could reap a harvest,
the hostile savages dashed in and destroyed everything.
Uncle John Smith was one of the principal traders back in the '30's,
and he was very successful, perhaps because he was undoubtedly the
most perfect master of the Cheyenne language at that time in the
whole mountain region.
Among those who frequently came to the fort were Kit Carson,
L. B. Maxwell, Uncle Dick Wooton, Baptiste Brown, Jim Bridger,
Old Bill Williams, James Beckwourth, Shawnee Spiebuck, Shawnee Jake
--the latter two, noted Indian trappers--besides a host of others.
Hobbs was married to the daughter of Old Wolf, the chief of the
Comanches, a really beautiful Indian girl, with whom he lived
faithfully many years. In the early summer of 1835, he went with his
father-in-law and the rest of the tribe to the great feast of that
season. He stated that on that occasion there were forty thousand
Indians assembled, and consequently large hunting parties were sent
out daily to procure food for such a vast host. The entertainment
was kept up for fifteen days, enlivened by horse races, foot races,
and playing ball. In these races the tribes would bet their horses
on the result, the Comanches generally winning, for they are the best
riders in the world. By the time the feast was ended, the Arapahoes
and Cheyennes usually found themselves afoot, but Old Wolf, who was a
generous fellow, always gave them back enough animals to get home with.
The game of ball was played with crooked sticks, and is very much
like the American boys' "shinny." The participants are dressed in
a simple breech-cloth and moccasins. It is played with great
enthusiasm and affords much amusement.
It was at this time that Hobbs was ransomed by Colonel Bent, who gave
Old Wolf, for him, six yards of red flannel, a pound of tobacco, and
an ounce of beads.
The chief was taken in charge by a lieutenant, who showed him all
over the fort, letting him see the rifle port-holes, and explaining
how the place could stand a siege against a thousand Indians. Finally,
he was taken out on the parapet, where there was a six-pounder at
each angle. The old savage inquired how they could shoot such a thing,
and at Hobbs' request, a blank cartridge was put in the piece and
fired. Old Wolf sprang back in amazement, and the Indians on the
outside, under the walls, knowing nothing of what was going on,
ran away as fast as their legs could carry them, convinced that
their chief must be dead now and their own safety dependent upon
flight. Old Wolf and Hobbs sprang upon the wall and signalled and
shouted to them, and they returned, asking in great astonishment
what kind of a monstrous gun it was.
About noon trading commenced. The Indians wished to come into the
fort, but Bent would not let any enter but the chiefs. At the back
door the colonel displayed his goods, and the Indians brought forward
their ponies, buffalo-robes, deer and other skins, which they traded
for tobacco, beads, calico, flannel, knives, spoons, whistles,
jews'-harps, etc.
Whiskey was sold to them the first day, but as it caused several
fights among them before night, Bent stopped its sale, at Hobbs'
suggestion and with Old Wolf's consent. Indians, when they get drunk,
do not waste time by fighting with fists, like white men, but use
knives and tomahawks; so that a general scrimmage is a serious affair.
Two or three deaths resulted the first day, and there would have been
many more if the sale of whiskey had not been stopped.
The trading continued for eight days, and Colonel Bent reaped a rich
harvest of what he could turn into gold at St. Louis. Old Wolf slept
in the fort each night except one during that time, and every time
his warriors aroused him about twelve o'clock and compelled him to
show himself on the walls to satisfy them of his safety.
About a hundred trappers were in the employ of Bent and his partners.
Sometimes one-half of the company were off on a hunt, leaving but
a small force at the fort for its protection, but with the small
battery there its defence was considered sufficient.
Grizzlies were very abundant in that region then, and one of the
party, named McIntire, having killed an elk the evening before, said
to Hobbs that they might stand a good chance to find a grizzly by
the elk he had shot but had not brought in. Hobbs said that he was
willing to go with him, but as McIntire was a very green man in the
mountains, Hobbs had some doubts of depending on him in case of an
attack by a grizzly bear.
The two men left for the ravine in which McIntire had killed the elk
very early in the morning, taking with them tomahawks, hunting-knives,
rifles, and a good dog. On arriving at the ravine, Hobbs told
McIntire to cross over to the other side and climb the hill, but on
no account to go down into the ravine, as a grizzly is more dangerous
when he has a man on the downhill side. Hobbs then went to where he
thought the elk might be if he had died by the bank of the stream;
but as soon as he came near the water, he saw that a large grizzly
had got there before him, having scented the animal, and was already
making his breakfast.
The bear was in thick, scrubby oak brush, and Hobbs, making his dog
lie down, crawled behind a rock to get a favourable shot at the beast.
He drew a bead on him and fired, but the bear only snarled at the
wound made by the ball and started tearing through the brush, biting
furiously at it as he went. Hobbs reloaded his rifle carefully,
and as quickly as he could, in order to get a second shot; but,
to his amazement, he saw the bear rushing down the ravine chasing
McIntire, who was only about ten feet in advance of the enraged beast,
running for his life, and making as much noise as a mad bull. He was
terribly scared, and Hobbs hastened to his rescue, first sending his
dog ahead.
Just as the dog reached the bear, McIntire darted behind a tree and
flung his hat in the bear's face, at the same time sticking his
rifle toward him. The old grizzly seized the muzzle of the gun in
his teeth, and, as it was loaded and cocked, it either went off
accidentally or otherwise and blew the bear's head open, just as the
dog had fastened on his hindquarters. Hobbs ran to the assistance
of his comrade with all haste, but he was out of danger and had sat
down a few rods away, with his face as white as a sheet, a badly
frightened man.
CHAPTER XX.
PAWNEE ROCK.
None of the various bands had the temerity to attempt its permanent
occupancy; for whenever hostile tribes met there, which was of
frequent occurrence, in their annual hunt for their winter's supply
of meat, a bloody battle was certain to ensue. The region referred
to has been the scene of more sanguinary conflicts between the
different Indians of the plains, perhaps, than any other portion
of the continent. Particularly was it the arena of war to the death,
when the Pawnees met their hereditary enemies, the Cheyennes.
Who, among bearded and grizzled old fellows like myself, has forgotten
that most sensational of all the miserably executed illustrations
in the geographies of fifty years ago, "The Santa Fe Traders attacked
by Indians"? The picture located the scene of the fight at Pawnee
Rock, which formed a sort of nondescript shadow in the background
of a crudely drawn representation of the dangers of the Trail.
In the early fall, when the rock was wrapped in the soft amber haze
which is a distinguishing characteristic of the incomparable Indian
summer on the plains; or in the spring, when the mirage weaves its
mysterious shapes, it loomed up in the landscape as if it were a huge
mountain, and to the inexperienced eye appeared as if it were the
abrupt ending of a well-defined range. But when the frost came,
and the mists were dispelled; when the thin fringe of timber on the
Walnut, a few miles distant, had doffed its emerald mantle, and
the grass had grown yellow and rusty, then in the golden sunlight
of winter, the rock sank down to its normal proportions, and cut
the clear blue of the sky with sharply marked lines.
In the days when the Santa Fe trade was at its height, the Pawnees
were the most formidable tribe on the eastern central plains, and
the freighters and trappers rarely escaped a skirmish with them
either at the crossing of the Walnut, Pawnee Rock, the Fork of the
Pawnee, or at Little and Big Coon creeks. To-day what is left of
the historic hill looks down only upon peaceful homes and fruitful
fields, whereas for hundreds of years it witnessed nothing but battle
and death, and almost every yard of brown sod at its base covered
a skeleton. In place of the horrid yell of the infuriated savage,
as he wrenched off the reeking scalp of his victim, the whistle of
the locomotive and the pleasant whirr of the reaping-machine is heard;
where the death-cry of the painted warrior rang mournfully over
the silent prairie, the waving grain is singing in beautiful rhythm
as it bows to the summer breeze.
Pawnee Rock received its name in a baptism of blood, but there are
many versions as to the time and sponsors. It was there that Kit
Carson killed his first Indian, and from that fight, as he told me
himself, the broken mass of red sandstone was given its distinctive
title.
It was late in the spring of 1826; Kit was then a mere boy, only
seventeen years old, and as green as any boy of his age who had never
been forty miles from the place where he was born. Colonel Ceran
St. Vrain, then a prominent agent of one of the great fur companies,
was fitting out an expedition destined for the far-off Rocky Mountains,
the members of which, all trappers, were to obtain the skins of the
buffalo, beaver, otter, mink, and other valuable fur-bearing animals
that then roamed in immense numbers on the vast plains or in the
hills, and were also to trade with the various tribes of Indians on
the borders of Mexico.
The expedition left Fort Osage one bright morning in May in excellent
spirits, and in a few hours turned abruptly to the west on the broad
Trail to the mountains. The great plains in those early days were
solitary and desolate beyond the power of description; the Arkansas
River sluggishly followed the tortuous windings of its treeless banks
with a placidness that was awful in its very silence; and whoso
traced the wanderings of that stream with no companion but his own
thoughts, realized in all its intensity the depth of solitude from
which Robinson Crusoe suffered on his lonely island. Illimitable as
the ocean, the weary waste stretched away until lost in the purple of
the horizon, and the mirage created weird pictures in the landscape,
distorted distances and objects which continually annoyed and deceived.
Despite its loneliness, however, there was then, and ever has been
for many men, an infatuation for those majestic prairies that once
experienced is never lost, and it came to the boyish heart of Kit,
who left them but with life, and full of years.
There was not much variation in the eternal sameness of things during
the first two weeks, as the little train moved day after day through
the wilderness of grass, its ever-rattling wheels only intensifying
the surrounding monotony. Occasionally, however, a herd of buffalo
was discovered in the distance, their brown, shaggy sides contrasting
with the never-ending sea of verdure around them. Then young Kit,
and two or three others of the party who were detailed to supply
the teamsters and trappers with meat, would ride out after them on
the best of the extra horses which were always kept saddled and tied
together behind the last wagon for services of this kind. Kit, who
was already an excellent horseman and a splendid shot with the rifle,
would soon overtake them, and topple one after another of their huge
fat carcasses over on the prairie until half a dozen or more were
lying dead. The tender humps, tongues, and other choice portions
were then cut out and put in a wagon which had by that time reached
them from the train, and the expedition rolled on.
So they marched for about three weeks, when they arrived at the
crossing of the Walnut, where they saw the first signs of Indians.
They had halted for that day; the mules were unharnessed, the
camp-fires lighted, and the men just about to indulge in their
refreshing coffee, when suddenly half a dozen Pawnees, mounted on
their ponies, hideously painted and uttering the most demoniacal
yells, rushed out of the tall grass on the river-bottom, where they
had been ambushed, and swinging their buffalo-robes, attempted to
stampede the herd picketed near the camp. The whole party were on
their feet in an instant with rifles in hand, and all the savages
got for their trouble were a few well-deserved shots as they hurriedly
scampered back to the river and over into the sand hills on the other
side, soon to be out of sight.
At dark the sentinels were placed in position, and to young Kit fell
the important post immediately in front of the south face of the
Rock, nearly two hundred yards from the corral; the others being at
prominent points on top, and on the open prairie on either side.
All who were not on duty had long since been snoring heavily,
rolled up in their blankets and buffalo-robes, when at about half-past
eleven, one of the guard gave the alarm, "Indians!" and ran the mules
that were nearest him into the corral. In a moment the whole company
turned out at the report of a rifle ringing on the clear night air,
coming from the direction of the rock. The men had gathered at
the opening to the corral, waiting for developments, when Kit came
running in, and as soon as he was near enough, the colonel asked him
whether he had seen any Indians. "Yes," Kit replied, "I killed one
of the red devils; I saw him fall!"
Early the next morning, before breakfast even, all were so anxious
to see Kit's dead Indian, that they went out en masse to where he was
still stationed, and instead of finding a painted Pawnee, as was
expected, they found the boy's riding mule dead, shot right through
the head.
Kit felt terribly mortified over his ridiculous blunder, and it was
a long time before he heard the last of his midnight adventure and
his raid on his own mule. But he always liked to tell the "balance
of the story," as he termed it, and this is his version: "I had not
slept any the night before, for I stayed awake watching to get a
shot at the Pawnees that tried to stampede our animals, expecting
they would return; and I hadn't caught a wink all day, as I was out
buffalo hunting, so I was awfully tired and sleepy when we arrived
at Pawnee Rock that evening, and when I was posted at my place at
night, I must have gone to sleep leaning against the rocks; at any
rate, I was wide enough awake when the cry of Indians was given by
one of the guard. I had picketed my mule about twenty steps from
where I stood, and I presume he had been lying down; all I remember
is that the first thing I saw after the alarm was something rising up
out of the grass, which I thought was an Indian. I pulled the trigger;
it was a centre shot, and I don't believe the mule ever kicked after
he was hit!"
The next morning about daylight, a band of Pawnees attacked the train
in earnest, and kept the little command busy all that day, the next
night, and until the following midnight, nearly three whole days,
the mules all the time being shut in the corral without food or water.
At midnight of the second day the colonel ordered the men to hitch up
and attempt to drive on to the crossing of Pawnee Fork, thirteen miles
distant.[62] They succeeded in getting there, fighting their way
without the loss of any of their men or animals. The Trail crossed
the creek in the shape of a horseshoe, or rather, in consequence of
the double bend of the stream as it empties into the Arkansas, the
road crossed it twice. In making this passage, dangerous on account
of its crookedness, Kit said many of the wagons were badly mashed up;
for the mules were so thirsty that their drivers could not control
them. The train was hardly strung out on the opposite bank when
the Indians poured in a volley of bullets and a shower of arrows
from both sides of the Trail; but before they could load and fire
again, a terrific charge was on them, led by Colonel St. Vrain and
Carson. It required only a few moments more to clean out the
persistent savages, and the train went on. During the whole fight
the little party lost four men killed and seven wounded, and eleven
mules killed (not counting Kit's), and twenty badly wounded.
A great many years ago, very early in the days of the trade with
New Mexico, seven Americans were surprised by a large band of Pawnees
in the vicinity of the Rock and were compelled to retreat to it for
safety. There, without water, and with but a small quantity of
provisions, they were besieged by their blood-thirsty foes for two
days, when a party of traders coming on the Trail relieved them from
their perilous situation and the presence of their enemy. There were
several graves on its summit when I first saw Pawnee Rock; but
whether they contained the bones of savages or those of white men,
I do not know.
Kit, or "the General," as every one called him, was in a good humour
for talking, and we naturally took advantage of this to draw him out;
for usually he was the most reticent of men in relating his own
exploits. A casual remark made by Maxwell opened Carson's mouth,
and he said he remembered one of the "worst difficults" a man ever
got into.[63] So he made a fresh corn-shuck cigarette, and related
the following; but the names of the old trappers who were the
principals in the fight I have unfortunately forgotten.
Two men had been trapping in the Powder River country during one
winter with unusually good luck, and they got an early start with
their furs, which they were going to take to Weston, on the Missouri,
one of the principal trading points in those days. They walked the
whole distance, driving their pack-mules before them, and experienced
no trouble until they struck the Arkansas valley at Pawnee Rock.
There they were intercepted by a war-party of about sixty Pawnees.
Both of the trappers were notoriously brave and both dead shots.
Before they arrived at the rock, to which they were finally driven,
they killed two of the Indians, and had not themselves received a
scratch. They had plenty of powder, a pouch full of balls each,
and two good rifles. They also had a couple of jack-rabbits for
food in case of a siege, and the perpendicular walls of the front
of the rock made them a natural fortification, an almost impregnable
one against Indians.
Whenever the savages attempted to carry off their dead,[64] the two
trappers took advantage of the opportunity, and poured in their
shots every time with telling effect.
By this time night had fallen, and the Indians did not seem anxious
to renew the fight after dark; but they kept their mounted patrols
on every side of the rock, at a respectable distance from such dead
shots, watching to prevent the escape of the besieged. As they were
hungry, one of the men went down under cover of the darkness to get
a few buffalo-chips with which to cook their rabbit, and to change
the animals to where they could get fresh grass. He returned safely
to the summit of the rock, where a little fire was made and their
supper prepared. They had to go without water all the time, and so
did the mules; the men did not mind the want of it themselves, but
they could not help pitying their poor animals that had had none
since they left camp early that morning. It was no use to worry,
though; the nearest water was at the river, and it would have been
certain death to have attempted to go there unless the savages
cleared out, and from all appearances they had no idea of doing that.
What gave the trappers more cause for alarm than anything else,
was the fear that the Indians would fire the prairie in the morning,
and endeavour to smoke them out or burn them up. The grass was in
just the condition to make a lively blaze, and they might escape
the flames, and then they might not. It can well be imagined how
eagerly they watched for the dawn of another day, perhaps the last
for them.
The first gray streaks of light had hardly peeped above the horizon,
when, with an infernal yell, the Indians broke for the rock, and
the trappers were certain that some new project had entered their
heads. The wind was springing up pretty freshly, and nature seemed
to conspire with the red devils, if they really meant to burn the
trappers out; and from the movements of the savages, that was what
they expected. The Indians kept at a respectful distance from the
range of the trappers' rifles, who chafed because they could not
stop some of the infernal yelling with a few well-directed bullets,
but they had to choke their rage, and watch events closely. During
a temporary lull in hostilities, one of the trappers took occasion
to crawl down to where the mules were, and shift them to the west
side of the rock, where the wall was the highest; so that the flame
and smoke might possibly pass by them without so much danger as where
they were picketed before. He had just succeeded in doing this,
and, tearing up the long grass for several yards around the animals,
was in the act of going back, when his partner yelled out to him:
"Look out! D---n 'em, they've fired the prairie!" He was back on
the top of the rock in another moment, and took in at a glance what
was coming.
The spectacle for a short interval was indescribably grand; the sun
was shining with all the power of its rays on the huge clouds of smoke
as they rolled down from the north, tinting them a glorious crimson.
The two trappers had barely time to get under the shelter of a large
projecting point of the rocky wall, when the wind and smoke swept
down to the ground, and instantly they were enveloped in the darkness
of midnight. They could not discern a single object; neither Indians,
horses, the prairie, nor the sun; and what a terrible wind!
Two of the Indians and their horses were caught in their own trap,
and perished miserably. They had attempted to reach the east side
of the rock, so as to steal around to the other side where the mules
were, and either cut them loose or crawl up on the trappers while
bewildered in the smoke and kill them, if they were not already dead.
But they had proceeded only a few rods on their little expedition,
when the terrible darkness of the smoke-cloud overtook them and soon
the flames, from which there was no possible escape.
All the game on the prairie which the fire swept over was killed too.
Only a few buffalo were visible in that region before the fire, but
even they were killed. The path of the flames, as was discovered by
the caravans that passed over the Trail a few days afterward, was
marked with the crisp and blackened carcasses of wolves, coyotes,
turkeys, grouse, and every variety of small birds indigenous to the
region. Indeed, it seemed as if no living thing it had met escaped
its fury. The fire assumed such gigantic proportions, and moved
with such rapidity before the wind, that even the Arkansas River
did not check its path for a moment; it was carried as readily across
as if the stream had not been in its way.
The first thought of the trappers on the rock was for their poor
mules. One crawled to where they were, and found them badly singed,
but not seriously injured. The men began to brighten up again when
they knew that their means of transportation were relatively all
right, and themselves also, and they took fresh courage, beginning
to believe they should get out of their bad scrape after all.
The devils this time had tied all their ponies together, covered
them with branches of trees that they had gone up on the Walnut for,
packed some lodge-skins on these, and then, driving the living
breastworks before them, moved toward the rock. They proceeded
cautiously but surely, and matters began to look very serious for
the trappers. As the strange cavalcade approached, a trapper raised
his rifle, and a masked pony tumbled over on the scorched sod dead.
As one of the Indians ran to cut him loose, the other trapper took
him off his feet by a well-directed shot; he never uttered a groan.
The besieged now saw their only salvation was to kill the ponies
and so demoralize the Indians that they would have to abandon such
tactics, and quicker than I can tell it, they had stretched four
more out on the prairie, and made it so hot for the savages that
they ran out of range and began to hold a council of war.
Finding that their plan would not work--for as the last pony was shot,
the rest stampeded and were running wild over the prairie--the Indians
soon went back to their camp again, and the trappers now had a few
spare moments in which to take an account of stock. They discovered,
much to their chagrin, that they had used up all their ammunition
except three or four loads, and despair hovered over them once more.
The Indians did not reappear that evening, and the cause was apparent;
for in the distance could be seen a long line of wagons, one of the
large American caravans en route to Santa Fe. The savages had seen
it before the trappers, and had cleared out. When the train arrived
opposite the rock, the relieved men came down from their little
fortress, joined the caravan, and camped with the Americans that
night on the Walnut. While they were resting around their camp-fire,
smoking and telling of their terrible experience on the top of the
rock, the Indians could be heard chanting the death-song while they
were burying their warriors under the blackened sod of the prairie.
That night, in a timbered bend of the Walnut, the victors had a grand
dance, in which scalps, ears, and fingers of their enemies, suspended
by strings to long poles, were important accessories to their weird
orgies around their huge camp-fires.[65]
Among those whom he persuaded to enter his employ was a mere boy,
named McGee, who came wandering into Leavenworth a few weeks before
the train was ready to leave, seeking work of any description.
His parents had died on their way to Kansas, and on his arrival at
Westport Landing, the emigrant outfit that had extended to him
shelter and protection in his utter loneliness was disbanded; so the
youthful orphan was thrown on his own resources. At that time the
Indians of the great plains, especially along the line of the Santa Fe
Trail, were very hostile, and continually harassing the freight
caravans and stage-coaches of the overland route. Companies of men
were enlisting and being mustered into the United States service to
go out after the savages, and young Robert McGee volunteered with
hundreds of others for the dangerous duty. The government needed
men badly, but McGee's youth militated against him, and he was below
the required stature; so he was rejected by the mustering officer.
By the last day of June the caravan was all ready, and on the morning
of the next day, July 1, the wagons rolled out of the fort, escorted
by a company of United States troops, from the volunteers referred to.
The caravan wound its weary way over the lonesome Trail with nothing
to relieve the monotony save a few skirmishes with the Indians; but
no casualties occurred in these insignificant battles, the savages
being afraid to venture too near on account of the presence of the
military escort.
About five o'clock, a hundred and fifty painted savages, under the
command of Little Turtle of the Brule Sioux, swooped down on the
unsuspecting caravan while the men were enjoying their evening meal.
Not a moment was given them to rally to the defence of their lives,
and of all belonging to the outfit, with the exception of one boy,
not a soul came out alive.
The teamsters were every one of them shot dead and their bodies
horribly mutilated. After their successful raid, the savages
destroyed everything they found in the wagons, tearing the covers
into shreds, throwing the flour on the trail, and winding up by
burning everything that was combustible.
On the same day the commanding officer of Fort Larned had learned
from some of his scouts that the Brule Sioux were on the war-path,
and the chief of the scouts with a handful of soldiers was sent out
to reconnoitre. They soon struck the trail of Little Turtle and
followed it to the scene of the massacre on Cow Creek, arriving
there only two hours after the savages had finished their devilish
work. Dead men were lying about in the short buffalo-grass which
had been stained and matted by their flowing blood, and the agonized
posture of their bodies told far more forcibly than any language
the tortures which had come before a welcome death. All had been
scalped; all had been mutilated in that nameless manner which seems
to delight the brutal instincts of the North American savage.
Moving slowly from one to the other of the lifeless forms which
still showed the agony of their death-throes, the chief of the scouts
came across the bodies of two boys, both of whom had been scalped
and shockingly wounded, besides being mutilated, yet, strange to say,
both of them were alive. As tenderly as the men could lift them,
they were conveyed at once back to Fort Larned and given in charge
of the post surgeon. One of the boys died in a few hours after his
arrival in the hospital, but the other, Robert McGee, slowly regained
his strength, and came out of the ordeal in fairly good health.
The story of the massacre was related by young McGee, after he was
able to talk, while in the hospital at the fort; for he had not
lost consciousness during the suffering to which he was subjected
by the savages.
Believing him dead by that time, Little Turtle abandoned his victim;
but the other savages, as they went by his supposed corpse, could not
resist their infernal delight in blood, so they thrust their knives
into him, and bored great holes in his body with their lances.
After the savages had done all that their devilish ingenuity could
contrive, they exultingly rode away, yelling as they bore off the
reeking scalps of their victims, and drove away the hundreds of mules
they had captured.
When the tragedy was ended, the soldiers, who had from their
vantage-ground witnessed the whole diabolical transaction, came up
to the bloody camp by order of their commander, to learn whether
the teamsters had driven away their assailants, and saw too late
what their cowardice had allowed to take place. The officer in
command of the escort was dismissed the service, as he could not
give any satisfactory reason for not going to the rescue of the
caravan he had been ordered to guard.
CHAPTER XXI.
FOOLING STAGE ROBBERS.
One of the most remarkable stories of this Wagon Mound country dealt
with the nerve and bravery exhibited by John L. Hatcher in defence
of his life, and those of the men in his caravan, about 1858.
Hatcher was a noted trader and merchant of New Mexico. He was also
celebrated as an Indian fighter, and his name was a terror to the
savages who infested the settlements of New Mexico and raided the Trail.
He left Taos, where he then resided, in the summer, with his caravan
loaded with furs and pelts destined for Westport Landing; to be
forwarded from there to St. Louis, the only market for furs in the
far West. His train was a small one, comprising about fifteen wagons
and handled by about as many men, including himself. At the date
of his adventure the Indians were believed to be at peace with
everybody; a false idea, as Hatcher well knew, for there never was
such a condition of affairs as absolute immunity from their attacks.
While it might be true that the old men refrained for a time from
starting out on the war-path, there were ever the vastly greater
number of restless young warriors who had not yet earned their eagle
feathers, who could not be controlled by their chiefs, and who were
always engaged in marauding, either among the border settlements
or along the line of the Trail.
They were Comanches, and one of the most noted chiefs of the tribe
was in command of the band, with some inferior chiefs under him.
I think it was Old Wolf, a very old man then, whose raids into Texas
had made his name a terror to the Mexicans living on the border.
While the chiefs were eating their saccharine lunch, Hatcher was
losing no time in forming his wagons into a corral, but he told his
friends afterward that he had no idea that either he or any of his
men would escape; only fifteen or sixteen men against over three
hundred merciless savages, and those the worst on the continent,
and a small corral--the chances were totally hopeless! Nothing but
a desperate action could avail, and maybe not even that.[67] Hatcher,
after the other head men had finished eating, asked the old chief
to send his young warriors away over the hill. They were all sitting
close to one of the wagons, Old Wolf, in fact, leaning against the
wheel resting on his blanket, with Hatcher next him on his right.
Hatcher was so earnest in his appeal to have the young men sent away,
that both the venerable villain and his other chiefs rose and were
standing. Without a moment's notice or the slightest warning,
Hatcher reached with his left hand and grabbed Old Wolf by his
scalp-lock, and with his right drew his butcher-knife from its
scabbard and thrust it at the throat of the chief. All this was
done in an instant, as quick as lightning; no one had time to move.
The situation was remarkable. The little, wiry man, surrounded by
eight or nine of the most renowned warriors of the dreaded Comanches,
stood firm; everybody was breathless; not a word did the savages say.
Hatcher then said again to Old Wolf, in the most determined manner:
"Send your young men over the hill at once, or I'll kill you right
where you are!" holding on to the hair of the savage with his left
hand and keeping the knife at his throat.
The other Indians did not dare to make a move; they knew what kind of
a man Hatcher was; they knew he would do as he had said, and that if
they attempted a rescue he would kill their favourite chief in a second.
Old Wolf shook his head defiantly in the negative. Hatcher repeated
his order, getting madder all the time: "Send your young men over
the hill; I tell you!" Old Wolf was still stubborn; he shook his
head again. Hatcher gave him another chance: "Send your young men
over the hill, I tell you, or I'll scalp you alive as you are!"
Again the chief shook his head. Then Hatcher, still holding on the
hair of his stubborn victim, commenced to make an incision in the
head of Old Wolf, for the determined man was bound to carry out his
threat; but he began very slowly.
As the chief felt the blood trickle down his forehead, he weakened.
He ordered his next in command to send the young men over the hill
and out of sight. The order was repeated immediately to the warriors,
who were astonished spectators of the strange scene, and they quickly
mounted their horses and rode away over the hill as fast as they
could thump their animals' sides with their legs, leaving only five
or six chiefs with Old Wolf and Hatcher.
Hatcher held on like grim death to the old chief's head, and immediately
ordered his men to throw the robes out of the wagons as quickly as
they could, and get inside themselves. This was promptly obeyed,
and when they were all under the cover of the wagon sheets, Hatcher
let go of his victim's hair, and, with a last kick, told him and his
friends that they could leave. They went off, and did not return.
In the late summer of 1866, a thieving band of Apaches came into the
vicinity of Fort Union, New Mexico, and after carefully reconnoitring
the whole region and getting at the manner in which the stock
belonging to the fort was herded, they secreted themselves in the
Turkey Mountains overlooking the entire reservation, and lay in wait
for several days, watching for a favourable moment to make a raid
into the valley and drive off the herd.
Selecting an occasion when the guard was weak and not very alert,
they in broad daylight crawled under the cover of a hill, and,
mounting their horses, dashed out with the most unearthly yells and
down among the animals that were quietly grazing close to the fort,
which terrified these so greatly that they broke away from the herders,
and started at their best gait toward the mountains, closely followed
by the savages.
The astonished soldiers used every effort to avert the evident loss
of their charge, and many shots were exchanged in the running fight
that ensued; but the Indians were too strong for them, and they were
forced to abandon the chase.
Among the herders was a bugler boy, who was remarkable for his bravery
in the skirmish and for his untiring endeavours to turn the animals
back toward the fort, but all without avail; on they went, with the
savages, close to their heels, giving vent to the most vociferous
shouts of exultation, and directing the most obscene and insulting
gesticulations to the soldiers that were after them.
While this exciting contest for the mastery was going on, an old
Apache chief dashed in the rear of the bold bugler boy, and could,
without doubt, easily have killed the little fellow; but instead of
doing this, from some idea of a good joke, or for some other
incomprehensible reason, his natural blood-thirsty instinct was
changed, and he merely knocked the bugler's hat from his head with
the flat of his hand, and at the same time encouragingly stroked his
hair, as much as to say: "You are a brave boy," and then rode off
without doing him any harm.
Thirty years ago last August, I was riding from Fort Larned to Fort
Union, New Mexico, in the overland coach. I had one of my clerks
with me; we were the only passengers, and arrived at Fort Dodge,
which was the commencement of the "long route," at midnight.
There we changed drivers, and at the break of day were some
twenty-four miles on our lonely journey. The coach was rattling
along at a breakneck gait, and I saw that something was evidently
wrong. Looking out of one of the doors, I noticed that our Jehu was
in a beastly state of intoxication. It was a most dangerous portion
of the Trail; the Indians were not in the best of humours, and an
attack was not at all improbable before we arrived at the next
station, Fort Lyon.
As has been stated, the caravans bound for Santa Fe and the various
forts along the line of the Old Trail did not leave the eastern end
of the route until the grass on the plains, on which the animals
depended solely for subsistence the whole way, grew sufficiently to
sustain them, which was usually about the middle of May. But a great
many years ago, one of the high officials of the quartermaster's
department at Washington, who had never been for a moment on duty
on the frontier in his life, found a good deal of fault with what he
thought the dilatoriness of the officer in charge at Fort Leavenworth,
who controlled the question of transportation for the several forts
scattered all over the West, for not getting the freight caravans
started earlier, which the functionary at the capital said must and
should be done. He insisted that they must leave the Missouri River
by the middle of April, a month earlier than usual, and came out
himself to superintend the matter. He made the contracts accordingly,
easily finding contractors that suited him. He then wrote to
headquarters in a triumphant manner that he had revolutionized the
whole system of army transportation of supplies to the military posts.
Delighted with his success, he rode out about the second week of May
to Salt Creek, only three miles from the fort, and, very much to his
astonishment, found his teams, which he had believed to be on the
way to Santa Fe a month ago, snugly encamped. They had "started,"
just as was agreed.
John Chisholm was a famous ranchman a long while ago, who had so many
cattle that it was said he did not know their number himself. At one
time he had a large contract to furnish beef to an Indian agency
in Arizona; he had just delivered an immense herd there, and very
wisely, after receiving his cash for them, sent most of it on to
Santa Fe in advance of his own journey. When he arrived there,
he started for the Missouri River with a thousand dollars and
sufficient small change to meet his current expenses on the road.
The very first night out from Santa Fe, the coach was halted by a
band of men who had been watching Chisholm's movements from the time
he left the agency in Arizona. The instant the stage came to a
standstill, Chisholm divined what it meant, and had time to thrust
a roll of money down one of the legs of his trousers before the door
was thrown back and he was ordered to fork over what he had.
He invited the robbers to search him, and to take what they might
find, but said he was not in a financial condition at that juncture
to turn over much. The thieves found his watch, took that, and then
began to search him. As luck would have it, they entirely missed
the roll that was down his leg, and discovered but a two-dollar bill
in his vest. When he told them it was all he had to buy grub on
the road, one of the robbers handed him a silver dollar, remarking
as he did so: "That a man who was mean enough to travel with only
two dollars ought to starve, but he would give him the dollar just
to let him know that he was dealing with gentlemen!"
In a short time their tobacco began to run low, and as there was no
settlement of any kind between the two military posts, there was no
chance to replenish their stock. One night, while encamped on the
Arkansas, the only piece that was left in the whole command, about
half a plug, was unfortunately lost, and there was dismay in the
camp when the fact was announced. Hours were spent in searching for
the missing treasure. The next morning the march was delayed for
some time, while further diligent search was instituted by all hands,
but without result, and the command set out on its weary tramp,
as disconsolate as may well be imagined by those who are victims to
the habit of chewing the weed.
CHAPTER XXII.
A DESPERATE RIDE.
In the Rocky Mountains and on the great plains along the line of the
Old Trail are many rude and widely separated graves. The sequestered
little valleys, the lonely gulches, and the broad prairies through
which the highway to New Mexico wound its course, hide the bones of
hundreds of whom the world will never have any more knowledge.
The number of these solitary, and almost obliterated mounds is small
when compared with the vast multitude in the cemeteries of our towns,
though if the host of those whose bones are mouldering under the
short buffalo-grass and tall blue-stem of the prairies between the
Missouri and the mountains were tabulated, the list would be appalling.
Their aggregate will never be known; for the once remote region of
the mid-continent, like the ocean, rarely gave up its victims.
Lives went out there as goes an expiring candle, suddenly, swiftly,
and silently; no record was kept of time or place. All those who
thus died are graveless and monumentless, the great circle of the
heavens is the dome of their sepulchre, and the recurring blossoms
of springtime their only epitaph.
Sometimes the traveller over the Old Trail will suddenly, in the most
unexpected places, come across a little mound, perhaps covered with
stones, under which lie the mouldering bones of some unfortunate
adventurer. Above, now on a rude board, then on a detached rock, or
maybe on the wall of a beetling canyon, he may frequently read, in crude
pencilling or rougher carving, the legend of the dead man's ending.
The Walnut debouches into the Arkansas a short distance from where
the railroad crosses the creek, and at this point, too, the trail
from Fort Leavenworth merges into the Old Santa Fe. The broad pathway
is very easily recognized here; for it runs over a hard, flinty,
low divide, that has never been disturbed by the plough, and the
traveller has only to cast his eyes in a northeasterly direction
in order to see it plainly.
The creek is fairly well timbered to-day, as it has been ever since
the first caravan crossed the clear water of the little stream.
It was always a favourite place of ambush by the Indians, and many
a conflict has occurred in the beautiful bottom bounded by a margin
of trees on two sides, between the traders, trappers, troops, and
the Indians, and also between the several tribes that were hereditary
enemies, particularly the Pawnees and the Cheyennes. It is only
about sixteen miles east of Pawnee Rock, and included in that region
of debatable ground where no band of Indians dared establish a
permanent village; for it was claimed by all the tribes, but really
owned by none.
On the bank of the Walnut, at this time, were stationed three hundred
unassigned recruits of the Third Wisconsin Cavalry, under the command
of Captain Conkey. This point was rightly regarded as one of the
most important on the whole overland route; for near it passed the
favourite highway of the Indians on their yearly migrations north
and south, in the wake of the strange elliptical march of the buffalo
far beyond the Platte, and back to the sunny knolls of the Canadian.
Captain Henry Booth, during the year above mentioned, was chief of
cavalry and inspecting officer of the military district of the Upper
Arkansas, the western geographical limits of which extended to the
foot-hills of the mountains.
Hallowell was a famous whip, and prided himself upon the exceptionally
fine turnout which he daily drove among the picturesque hills around
the fort.
Hallowell had a set of bows fitted to his light wagon, over which
was thrown an army-wagon-sheet, drawn up behind with a cord, similar
to those of the ordinary emigrant outfit to be seen daily on the
roads of the Western prairies. A round hole was necessarily left
in the rear end, serving the purpose of a lookout.
The company of one hundred mounted men acting as escort was too
formidable a number for the Indians, and not a sign of one was seen
as the dangerous flats of Plum Creek and the rolling country beyond
were successively passed, and early in the afternoon the cantonment
on Walnut Creek was reached. At this important outpost Captain
Conkey's command was living in a rude but comfortable sort of a way,
in the simplest of dugouts, constructed along the right bank of the
stream; the officers, a little more in accordance with military
dignity, in tents a few rods in rear of the line of huts.
A stockade stable had been built, with a capacity for two hundred
and fifty horses, and sufficient hay had been put up by the men in
the fall to carry the animals through the winter.
Captain Conkey was a brusque but kind-hearted man, and with him were
stationed other officers, one of whom was a son of Admiral Goldsborough.
The morning after the arrival of the inspecting officers a rigid
examination of all the appointments and belongings of the place was
made, and, as an immense amount of property had accumulated for
condemnation, when evening came the books and papers were still
untouched; so that branch of the inspection had to be postponed
until the next morning.
After dark, while sitting around the camp-fire, discussing the war,
telling stories, etc., Captain Conkey said to Booth: "Captain,
it won't require more than half an hour in the morning to inspect
the papers and finish up what you have to do; why don't you start
your escort out very early, so it won't be obliged to trot after
the ambulance, or you to poke along with it? You can then move out
briskly and make time."
Jumping into their wagon, Lieutenant Hallowell took the reins and
away they went rattling over the old log bridge that used to span
the Walnut at the crossing of the Old Santa Fe Trail, as light of
heart as if riding to a dance.
The morning was bright and clear with a stiff breeze blowing from
the northwest, and the Trail was frozen hard in places, which made
it very rough, as it had been cut up by the travel of the heavily
laden caravans when it was wet. Booth sat on the left side of
Hallowell with the whip in his hand, now and then striking the mules,
to keep up their speed. Hallowell started up a tune--he was a good
singer--and Booth joined in as they rolled along, as oblivious of any
danger as though they were in their quarters at Fort Riley.
The next mile or two was passed, and still they saw no buffalo between
the Trail and the Arkansas, though nothing more was said by either
regarding the suspicious circumstance, and they rode rapidly on.
When they had gone about five or six miles from the Walnut, Booth,
happening to glance toward the river, saw something that looked
strangely like a flock of turkeys. He watched them intently for a
moment, when the objects rose up and he discovered they were horsemen.
He grasped Hallowell by the arm, directing his attention to them, and
said, "What are they?" Hallowell gave a hasty look toward the point
indicated, and replied, "Indians! by George!" and immediately turning
the mules around on the Trail, started them back toward the cantonment
on the Walnut at a full gallop.[68]
"No! no!" replied Hallowell. "I know they are Indians; I've seen
too many of them to be mistaken."
"Well," rejoined Booth, "I'm going to know for certain"; so, stepping
out on the foot-board, and with one hand holding on to the front bow,
he looked back over the top of the wagon-sheet. They were Indians,
sure enough; they had fully emerged from the ravine in which they had
hidden, and while he was looking at them they were slipping off their
buffalo robes from their shoulders, taking arrows out of their quivers,
drawing up their spears, and making ready generally for a red-hot time.
"Then I shall never see poor Lizzie again!" said Hallowell. He had
been married only a few weeks before starting out on this trip, and
his young wife's name came to his lips.
"Never mind Lizzie," responded Booth; "let's get out of here!" He was
as badly frightened as Hallowell, but had no bride at Riley, and,
as he tells it, "was selfishly thinking of himself only, and escape."
In answer to Booth's remark, Hallowell, in a firm, clear voice, said:
"All right! You do the shooting, and I'll do the driving," and
suiting the action to the words, he snatched the whip out of Booth's
hand, slipped from the seat to the front of the wagon, and commenced
lashing the mules furiously.
Booth then crawled back, pulled out one of his revolvers, crept, or
rather fell, over the "lazy-back" of the seat, and reaching the hole
made by puckering the wagon-sheet, looked out of it, and counted
the Indians; thirty-four feather-bedecked, paint-bedaubed savages,
as vicious a set as ever scalped a white man, swooping down on them
like a hawk upon a chicken.
Hallowell, between his yells at the mules, cried out, "How far are
they off now, Booth?" for of course he could see nothing of what
was going on in his rear.
Noiselessly the Indians gained on the little wagon, for they had not
as yet uttered a whoop, and the determined driver, anxious to know
how far the red devils were from him, again asked Booth. The latter
told him how near they were, guessing at the distance, from which
Hallowell gathered inspiration for fresh cries and still more vigorous
blows with his whip.
Booth, all this time, was sitting on the box containing the crackers
and sardines, watching the rapid approach of the cut-throats, and
seeing with fear and trembling the ease with which they gained upon
the little mules.
Once more Hallowell made his stereotyped inquiry of Booth; but before
the latter could reply, two shots were fired from the rifles of the
Indians, accompanied by a yell that was demoniacal enough to cause
the blood to curdle in one's veins. Hallowell yelled at the mules,
and Booth yelled too; for what reason he could not tell, unless to
keep company with his comrade, who plied the whip more mercilessly
than ever upon the poor animals' backs, and the wagon flew over
the rough road, nearly upsetting at every jump.
In another moment the bullets from two of the Indians' rifles passed
between Booth and Hallowell, doing no damage, and almost instantly
the savages charged upon them, at the same time dividing into two
parties, one going on one side and one on the other, both delivering
a volley of arrows into the wagon as they rode by.
Just as the savages rushed past the wagon, Hallowell cried out to
Booth, "Cap, I'm hit!" and turning around to look, Booth saw an arrow
sticking in Hallowell's head above his right ear. His arm was still
plying the whip, which was going on unceasingly as the sails of a
windmill, and his howling at the mules only stopped long enough to
answer, "Not much!" in response to Booth's inquiry of "Does it hurt?"
as he grabbed the arrow and pulled it out of his head.
The Indians had by this time passed on, and then, circling back,
prepared for another charge. Down they came, again dividing as before
into two bands, and delivering another shower of arrows. Hallowell
ceased his yelling long enough to cry out, "I'm hit once more, Cap!"
Looking at the plucky driver, Booth saw this time an arrow sticking
over his left ear, and hanging down his back. He snatched it out,
inquiring if it hurt, but received the same answer: "No, not much."
Both men were now yelling at the top of their voices; and the mules
were jerking the wagon along the rough trail at a fearful rate,
frightened nearly out of their wits at the sight of the Indians and
the terrible shouting and whipping of the driver.
Booth crawled to the back end of the wagon again, looked out of the
hole in the cover, and saw the Indians moving across the Trail,
preparing for another charge. One old fellow, mounted on a black
pony, was jogging along in the centre of the road behind them, but
near enough and evidently determined to send an arrow through the
puckered hole of the sheet. In a moment the savage stopped his pony
and let fly. Booth dodged sideways--the arrow sped on its course, and
whizzing through the opening, struck the black-walnut "lazy-back"
of the seat, the head sticking out on the other side, and the sudden
check causing the feathered end to vibrate rapidly with a vro-o-o-ing
sound. With a quick blow Booth struck it, and broke the shaft from
the head, leaving the latter embedded in the wood.
While all this was going on, Hallowell had not been neglected by
the Indians; about a dozen of them had devoted their time to him,
but he never flinched. Just as Booth had regained his equilibrium
and drawn his second revolver from its holster, Hallowell yelled
to him: "Right off to your right, Cap, quick!"
Booth tumbled over the back of the seat, and, clutching at a wagon-bow
to steady himself, he saw, "off to the right," an Indian who was in
the act of letting an arrow drive at Hallowell; it struck the side of
the box, and at the same instant Booth fired, scaring the red devil badly.
Back over the seat again he rushed to guard the rear, only to find
a young buck riding close to the side of the wagon, his pony running
in the deep path made by the ox-drivers in walking alongside of their
teams. Putting his left arm around one of the wagon-bows to prevent
his being jerked out, Booth quietly stuck his revolver through the
hole in the sheet; but before he could pull the trigger, the Indian
flopped over on the off side of his pony, and nothing could be seen
of him excepting one arm around his animal's neck and from the knee
to the toes of one leg. Booth did not wait for him to ride up;
he could almost hit the pony's head with his hand, so close was he
to the wagon. Booth struck at the beast several times, but the
Indian kept him right up in his place by whipping him on the opposite
of his neck. Presently the plucky savage's arm began to move.
Booth watched him intently, and saw that he had fixed an arrow in
his bow under the pony's shoulder; just as he was on the point of
letting go the bowstring, with the head of the arrow not three feet
from Booth's breast as he leaned out of the hole, the latter struck
frantically at the weapon, dodged back into the wagon, and up came
the Indian. Whenever Booth looked out, down went the Indian on
the other side of his pony, to rise again in a moment, and Booth,
afraid to risk himself with his head and breast exposed at this game
of hide and seek, drew suddenly back as the Indian went down the
third time, and in a second came up; but this was once too often.
Booth had not dodged completely into the wagon, nor dropped his
revolver, and as the Indian rose he fired.
The savage was naked to the waist; the ball struck him in the left
nipple, the blood spirted out of the wound, his bow and arrows and
lariat, with himself, rolled off the pony, falling heavily on the
ground, and with one convulsive contraction of his legs and an "Ugh!"
he was as dead as a stone.
After he had killed the warrior, Booth kept his seat on the cracker box,
watching to see what the Indians were going to do next, when he was
suddenly interrupted by Hallowell's crying out to him: "Off to the
right again, Cap, quick!" and, whirling around instantly, he saw an
Indian within three feet of the wagon, with his bow and arrow almost
ready to shoot; there was no time to get over the seat, and as he
could not fire so close to Hallowell, he cried to the latter:
"Hit him with the whip! Hit him with the whip!" The lieutenant
diverted one of the blows intended for the mules, and struck the
savage fairly across the face. The whip had a knot in the end of it
to prevent its unravelling, and this knot must have hit the Indian
squarely in the eye; for he dropped his bow, put both hands up to
his face, rubbed his eyes, and digging his heels into his pony's
sides was soon out of range of a revolver; but, nevertheless, he was
given a parting shot as a sort of salute.
A terrific yell from the rear at this moment caused both Booth and
Hallowell to look around, and the latter to inquire: "What's the
matter now, Booth?" "They are coming down on us like lightning,"
said he; and, sure enough, those who had been prancing around their
dead comrade were tearing along the Trail toward the wagon with a
more hideous noise than when they began.
Hallowell yelled louder than ever and lashed the mules more furiously
still, but the Indians gained upon them as easily as a blooded racer
on a common farm plug. Separating as before, and passing on each
side of the wagon, they delivered another volley of bullets and
arrows as they rushed on.
When this charge was made, Booth drew away from the hole in the rear
and turned toward the Indians, but forgot that as he was sitting,
with his back pressed against the sheet, his body was plainly outlined
on the canvas.
When the Indians dashed by Hallowell cried out, "I'm hit again, Cap!"
and Booth, in turning around to go to his relief, felt something
pulling at him; and glancing over his left shoulder he discovered
an arrow sticking into him and out through the wagon-sheet. With a
jerk of his body, he tore himself loose, and going to Hallowell,
asked him where he was hit. "In the back," was the reply; where
Booth saw an arrow extending under the "lazy-back" of the seat.
Taking hold of it, Booth gave a pull, but Hallowell squirmed so that
he desisted. "Pull it out!" cried the plucky driver. Booth thereupon
took hold of it again, and giving a jerk or two, out it came. He was
thoroughly frightened as he saw it leave the lieutenant's body;
it seemed to have entered at least six inches, and the wound appeared
to be a dangerous one. Hallowell, however, did not cease for a moment
belabouring the mules, and his yells rang out as clear and defiant
as before.
After extracting the arrow from Hallowell's back, Booth turned again
to the opening in the rear of the wagon to see what new tricks the
devils were up to, when Hallowell again called out, "Off to the left,
Cap, quick!"
Rushing to the front as soon as possible, Booth saw one of the savages
in the very act of shooting at Hallowell from the left side of the
wagon, not ten feet away. The last revolver was empty, but something
had to be done at once; so, levelling the weapon at him, Booth shouted
"Bang! you son-of-a-gun!" Down the Indian ducked his head; rap, rap,
went his knees against his pony's sides, and away he flew over
the prairie!
Back to his old place in the rear tumbled Booth, to load his revolver.
The cartridges they used in the army in those days were the
old-fashioned kind made of paper. Biting off one end, he endeavoured
to pour the powder into the chamber of the pistol; but as the wagon
was tumbling from side to side, and jumping up and down, as it fairly
flew over the rough Trail, more fell into the bottom of the wagon
than into the revolver. Just as he was inserting a ball, Hallowell
yelled, "To the left, Cap, quick!"
Over the seat Booth piled once more, and there was another Indian
with his bow and arrow all ready to pinion the brave lieutenant.
Pointing his revolver at him, Booth yelled as he had at the other,
but this savage had evidently noticed the first failure, and concluded
there were no more loads left; so, instead of taking a hasty departure,
he grinned demoniacally and endeavoured to fix the arrow in his bow.
Booth rose up in the wagon, and grasping hold of one of its bows
with his left hand, seized the revolver by the muzzle, and with all
the force he could muster hurled it at the impudent brute. It was
a Remington, its barrel octagon-shaped, with sharp corners, and when
it was thrown, it turned in the air, and striking the Indian
muzzle-first on the ribs, cut a long gash.
"Ugh!" he grunted, as, dropping his bow and spear, he flung himself
over the side of his pony, and away he went across the prairie.
Only one revolver remaining now, and that empty, with the savages
still howling around the apparently doomed men like so many demons!
Booth fell over the seat, as was his usual fate whenever he attempted
to get to the back of the wagon, picked up the empty revolver, and
tried to load it; but before he could bite the end of a cartridge,
Hallowell yelled, "Cap, I'm hit again!"
"Where this time?" inquired Booth, anxiously. "In the hand," replied
Hallowell; and, looking around, Booth noticed that although his right
arm was still thrashing at the now lagging mules with as much energy
as ever, through the fleshy part of the thumb was an arrow, which was
flopping up and down as he raised and lowered his hand in ceaseless
efforts to keep up the speed of the almost exhausted animals.
"No, never mind," replied Hallowell; "can't stop! can't stop!" and up
and down went the arm, and flip, flap, went the arrow with it, until
finally it tore through the flesh and fell to the ground.
Along they bowled, the Indians yelling, and the occupants of the
little wagon defiantly answering them, while Booth continued to
struggle desperately with that empty pistol, in his vain efforts
to load it. In another moment Hallowell shouted, "Booth, they are
trying to crowd the mules into the sunflowers!"
Alongside of the Trail huge sunflowers had grown the previous summer,
and now their dry stalks stood as thick as a cane-brake; if the wagon
once got among them, it would be impossible for the mules to keep up
their gallop. The savages seemed to realize this; for one huge old
fellow kept riding alongside the off mule, throwing his spear at him
and then jerking it back with the thong, one end of which was fastened
to his wrist. The near mule was constantly pushed further and further
from the Trail by his mate, which was jumping frantically, scared out
of his senses by the Indian.
The Indians kept close to the mules in their efforts to force them
into the sunflowers, and Booth made several attempts to scare the
old fellow that was nearest by pointing his empty revolver at him,
but he would not scare; so in his desperation Booth threw it at him.
He missed the old brute, but hit his pony just behind its rider's leg,
which started the animal into a sort of a stampede; his ugly master
could not control him, and thus the immediate peril from the
persistent cuss was delayed.
Now the pair were absolutely without firearms of any kind, with
nothing left except their sabres and valises, and the savages came
closer and closer. In turn the two swords were thrown at them as they
came almost within striking distance; then followed the scabbards,
as the howling fiends surrounded the wagon and attempted to spear
the mules. Fortunately their arrows were exhausted.
The cantonment on the Walnut was still a mile and a half away, and
there was nothing for our luckless travellers to do but whip and kick,
both of which they did most vigorously. Hallowell sat as immovable
as the Sphinx, excepting his right arm, which from the moment they
had started on the back trail had not once ceased its incessant motion.
Happening to cast his eyes back on the Trail, Booth saw to his dismay
twelve or fifteen of the savages coming up on the run with fresh
energy, their spears poised ready for action, and he felt that
something must be done very speedily to divert them; for if these
added their number to those already surrounding the wagon, the chances
were they would succeed in forcing the mules into the sunflowers,
and his scalp and Hallowell's would dangle at the belt of the leader.
Glancing around in the bottom of the wagon for some kind of weapon,
his eye fell on the two valises containing the dress-suits.
He snatched up his own, and threw it out while the pursuers were yet
five or six rods in the rear. The Indians noticed this new trick
with a great yell of satisfaction, and the moment they arrived at
the spot where the valise lay, all dismounted; one of them, seizing
it by the two handles, pulled with all his strength to open it, and
when he failed, another drew a long knife from under his blanket and
ripped it apart. He then put his hand in, pulling out a sash, which
he began to wind around his head, like a negress with a bandanna,
letting the tassels hang down his back. While he was thus amusing
himself, one of the others had taken out a dress-coat, a third a pair
of drawers, and still another a shirt, which they proceeded to put on,
meanwhile dancing around and howling.
During this discussion the arm of Hallowell still plied the effective
lash, and they drew perceptibly nearer the camp, and as they caught
the first glimpse of its tents and dugouts, hope sprang up within them.
The mules were panting like a hound after a deer; wherever the
harness touched them, it was white with lather, and it was evident
they could keep on their feet but a short time longer. Would they
hold out until the bridge was reached? The whipping and the kicking
had but little effect on them now. They still continued their gallop,
but it was slower and more laboured than before.
The Indians who had torn open the valises had not returned to the
chase, and although there were still a sufficient number of the
fiends pursuing to make it interesting, they did not succeed in
spearing the mules, as at every attempt the plucky animals would
jump sideways or forward and evade the impending blow.
The little log bridge was reached; the savages had all retreated,
but the valorous Hallowell kept the mules at their fastest pace.
The bridge was constructed of half-round logs, and of course was
extremely rough; the wagon bounded up and down enough to shake the
teeth out of one's head as the little animals went flying over it.
Booth called out to Hallowell, "No need to drive so fast now,
the Indians have all left us"; but he replied, "I ain't going to stop
until I get across"; and down came the whip, on sped the mules,
not breaking their short gallop until they were pulled up in front
of Captain Conkey's quarters.
The rattling of the wagon on the bridge was the first intimation
the garrison had of its return.
The officers came running out of their tents, the enlisted men poured
out of their dugouts like a lot of ants, and Booth and Hallowell were
surrounded by their friends in a moment. Captain Conkey ordered his
bugler to sound "Boots and Saddles," and in less than ten minutes
ninety troopers were mounted, and with the captain at their head
started after the Indians.
When Hallowell tried to rise from his seat so as to get out every
effort only resulted in his falling back. Some one stepped around
to the other side to assist him, when it was discovered that the
skirt of his overcoat had worked outside of the wagon-sheet and
hung over the edge, and that three or four of the arrows fired at him
by the savages had struck the side of the wagon, and, passing through
the flap of his coat, had pinned him down. Booth pulled the arrows
out and helped him up; he was pretty stiff from sitting in his cramped
position so long, and his right arm dropped by his side as if paralysed.
Booth stood looking on while his comrade's wounds were being dressed,
when the adjutant asked him: "What makes you shrug your shoulder so?"
He answered, "I don't know; something makes it smart." The officer
looked at him and said, "Well, I don't wonder; I should think it
would smart; here's an arrow-head sticking into you," and he tried
to pull it out, but it would not come. Captain Goldsborough then
attempted it, but was not any more successful. The doctor then told
them to let it alone, and he would attend to Booth after he had done
with Hallowell. When he examined Booth's shoulder, he found that
the arrow-head had struck the thick portion of the shoulder-blade,
and had made two complete turns, wrapping itself around the muscles,
which had to be cut apart before the sharp point could be withdrawn.
Booth was not seriously hurt. Hallowell, however, had received two
severe wounds; the arrow that had lodged in his back had penetrated
almost to his kidneys, and the wound in his thumb was very painful,
not so much from the simple impact of the arrow as from the tearing
away of the muscle by the shaft while he was whipping his mules;
his right arm, too, was swollen terribly, and so stiff from the
incessant use of it during the drive that for more than a month
he required assistance in dressing and undressing.
The mules who had saved their lives were of small account after
their memorable trip; they remained stiff and sore from the rough
road and their continued forced speed. Booth and Hallowell went out
to look at them the next morning, as they hobbled around the corral,
and from the bottom of their hearts wished them well.
The scouting-party had proceeded about four or five miles, when one
of the corporals asked permission for himself and a recruit to go
over to the Upper Walnut to find out whether they could discover
any signs of Indians.
While they were carelessly riding along the big curve which the
northern branch of the Walnut makes at that point, there suddenly
sprang from their ambush in the timber on the margin of the stream
about three hundred Indians, whooping and yelling. The two troopers
of course, immediately whirled their horses and started down the
creek toward the camp, hotly pursued by the howling savages.
"Let him go! Let him go! Don't jerk on the bit so!"
The Indians were gaining ground rapidly, and in another moment the
corporal heard the recruit again cry out,--
"Oh! Don't--"
The officers at the camp were sitting in their tents when the sentinel
on post No. 1 fired his piece, upon which all rushed out to learn
the cause of the alarm; for there was no random shooting in those
days allowed around camp or in garrison. Looking up the valley of
the Walnut, they could see the lucky corporal, with his long hair
streaming in the wind, and his heels rapping his horse's sides, as he
dashed over the brown sod of the winter prairie.
CHAPTER XXIII.
HANCOCK'S EXPEDITION.
In the spring of 1867, General Hancock, who then commanded the military
division of the Missouri, with headquarters at Fort Leavenworth,
Kansas, organized an expedition against the Indians of the great
plains, which he led in person. With him was General Custer, second
ranking officer, from whom I quote the story of the march and some
of the incidents of the raid.
General Hancock, with the artillery and six companies of infantry,
arrived at Fort Riley, Kansas, the last week in March, where he was
joined by four companies of the Seventh Cavalry, commanded by the
intrepid Custer.
Orders were issued on the evening of the 12th for the march
to be resumed on the following day. Late in the evening
two chiefs of the "Dog-Soldiers," a band composed of the
most warlike and troublesome Indians on the plains,
chiefly made up of Cheyennes, visited our camp. They were
accompanied by a dozen warriors, and expressed a desire to
hold a conference with General Hancock, to which he assented.
A large council-fire was built in front of the general's
tent, and all the officers of his command assembled there.
A tent had been erected for the accommodation of the chiefs
a short distance from the general's. Before they could
feel equal to the occasion, and in order to obtain time to
collect their thoughts, they desired that supper might be
prepared for them, which was done. When finally ready,
they advanced from their tent to the council-fire in single
file, accompanied by their agent and an interpreter.
Arrived at the fire, another brief delay ensued. No matter
how pressing or momentous the occasion, an Indian invariably
declines to engage in a council until he has filled his pipe
and gone through with the important ceremony of a smoke.
This attended to, the chiefs announced that they were ready
"to talk." They were then introduced to the principal
officers of the group, and seemed much struck with the
flashy uniforms of the few artillery officers, who were
present in all the glory of red horsehair plumes,
aiguillettes, etc. The chiefs seemed puzzled to determine
whether these insignia designated chieftains or medicine men.
General Hancock began the conference by a speech, in which
he explained to the Indians his purpose in coming to see
them, and what he expected of them in the future.
He particularly informed them that he was not there to make
war, but to promote peace. Then, expressing his regrets
that more of the chiefs had not visited him, he announced
his intention of proceeding on the morrow with his command
to the vicinity of their village, and there holding a
council with all the chiefs. Tall Bull, a fine, warlike-looking
chieftain, replied to General Hancock, but his speech
contained nothing important, being made up of allusions to
the growing scarcity of the buffalo, his love for the white
man, and the usual hint that a donation in the way of
refreshments would be highly acceptable; he added that he
would have nothing new to say at the village.
The night was all that could be desired for the success of
our enterprise. The air was mild and pleasant; the moon,
although nearly full, kept almost constantly behind the
clouds, as if to screen us in our hazardous undertaking.
I say hazardous, because none of us imagined for one moment
that if the Indians discovered us in our attempt to surround
them and their village, we should escape without a fight--
a fight, too, in which the Indians, sheltered behind the
trunks of the stately forest trees under which their lodges
were pitched, would possess all the advantage. General
Hancock, anticipating that the Indians would discover our
approach, and that a fight would ensue, ordered the
artillery and infantry under arms, to await the result of
our moonlight adventure. My command was soon in the saddle,
and silently making its way toward the village.
Instructions had been given forbidding all conversation
except in a whisper. Sabres were disposed of to prevent
clanging. Taking a camp-fire which we could see in the
village as our guiding point, we made a detour so as to
place the village between ourselves and the infantry.
Occasionally the moon would peep out from the clouds and
enable us to catch a hasty glance at the village. Here and
there under the thick foliage we could see the white,
conical-shaped lodges. Were the inmates slumbering,
unaware of our close proximity, or were their dusky defenders
concealed, as well they might have been, along the banks of
the Pawnee, quietly awaiting our approach, and prepared to
greet us with their well-known war-whoop? These were
questions that were probably suggested to the mind of each
individual of my command. If we were discovered approaching
in the stealthy, suspicious manner which characterized our
movements, the hour being midnight, it would require a more
confiding nature than that of the Indian to assign a
friendly or peaceful motive to our conduct. The same
flashes of moonlight which gave us hurried glimpses of the
village enabled us to see our own column of horsemen
stretching its silent length far into the dim darkness, and
winding its course, like some huge anaconda about to envelop
its victim.
That night the savages came close enough to camp to fire into it
(an unusual proceeding in Indian warfare, as they rarely molest
troops during the night), I now quote from Custer again:
The next day General Sully directed his march down the
valley of the Beaver; but just as his troops were breaking
camp, the long wagon-train having already "pulled out," and
the rear guard of the command having barely got into their
saddles, a party of between two and three hundred warriors,
who had evidently in some inexplicable manner contrived to
conceal themselves until the proper moment, dashed into the
deserted camp within a few yards of the rear of the troops,
and succeeded in cutting off a few led horses and two of
the cavalrymen who, as is often the case, had lingered a
moment behind the column.
The savages, in the little but exciting encounter at the creek before
the ammunition arrived, would ride up boldly toward the squadrons of
cavalry, discharge the shots from their revolvers, and then, in their
rage, throw them at the skirmishers on the flanks of the supply-train,
while the latter, nearly out of ammunition, were compelled to sit
quietly in their saddles, idle spectators of the extraordinary scene.[72]
CHAPTER XXIV.
INVASION OF THE RAILROAD.
He finds a large city at the very portals of the once far West,
with all the bustle and energy which is so characteristic of American
enterprise.
A few miles west of Topeka, the capital of Kansas, when the train
reaches the little hamlet of Wakarusa, the track of the railroad
commences to follow the route of the Old Santa Fe Trail. At that
point, too, the Oregon Trail branches off for the heavily timbered
regions of the Columbia. Now begins the classic ground of the once
famous highway to New Mexico; nearly every stream, hill, and wooded
dell has its story of adventure in those days when the railroad was
regarded as an impossibility, and the region beyond the Missouri as
a veritable desert.
The ruins of the once important military post may be seen from the
car-windows on the right, as the train crosses the iron bridge
spanning the Walnut, and here the Old Trail exactly coincides with
the railroad, the track of the latter running immediately on the
old highway.
Three miles westward from the classic little Walnut the Old Trail ran
through what is now the Court House Square of the town of Great Bend;
it may be seen from the station, and on that very spot occurred the
terrible fight of Captains Booth and Hallowell in 1864.
Another five or six miles, and the train crosses Ash Creek, which,
too, was once one of the favourite haunts of the Pawnee and Comanche
on their predatory excursions, in the days when the mules and horses
of passing freight caravans excited their cupidity. A short whirl
again, and the town of Larned, lying peacefully on the Arkansas and
Pawnee Fork, is reached. Immediately opposite the centre of the
street through which the railroad runs, and which was also the course
of the Old Trail, lying in the Arkansas River, close to its northern
bank, is a small thickly-wooded island, now reached by a bridge, that
is famous as the battle-ground of a terrible conflict thirty years ago,
between the Pawnees and Cheyennes, hereditary enemies, in which the
latter tribe was cruelly defeated.
The railroad bridge crosses Pawnee Fork at the precise spot where
the Old Trail did. This locality has been the scene of some of the
bloodiest encounters between the various tribes of savages themselves,
and between them and the freight caravans, the overland coaches,
and every other kind of outfit that formerly attempted the passage of
the now peaceful stream. In fact, the whole region from Walnut Creek
to the mouth of the Pawnee, which includes in its area Ash Creek
and Pawnee Rock, seemed to be the greatest resort for the Indians,
who hovered about the Santa Fe Trail for the sole purpose of robbery
and murder; it was a very lucky caravan or coach, indeed, that passed
through that portion of the route without being attacked.
All the once dangerous points of the Old Trail having been successively
passed--Cow Creek, Big and Little Coon, and Ash Creek, Fort Dodge,
Fort Aubrey,[73] and Point of Rocks--the tourist arrives at last at
the foot-hills. At La Junta the railroad separates into two branches;
one going to Denver, the other on to New Mexico. Here, a relatively
short distance to the northwest, on the right of the train, may be
seen the ruins of Bent's Fort, the tourist having already passed the
site of the once famous Big Timbers, a favourite winter camping-ground
of the Cheyennes and Arapahoes; but everywhere around him there reigns
such perfect quiet and pastoral beauty, he might imagine that the
peaceful landscape upon which he looks had never been a bloody arena.
I suggest to the lover of nature that he should cross the Raton Range
in the early morning, or late in the afternoon; for then the
magnificent scenery of the Trail over the high divide into New Mexico
assumes its most beautiful aspect.
In approaching the range from the Old Trail, or now from the railroad,
their snow-clad peaks may be seen at a distance of sixty miles.
In the era of caravans and pack-trains, for hour after hour, as they
moved slowly toward the goal of their ambition, the summit of the
fearful pathway on the divide, the huge forms of the mountains seemed
to recede, and yet ascend higher. On the next day's journey their
outlines appeared more irregular and ragged. Drawing still nearer,
their base presented a long, dark strip stretching throughout their
whole course, ever widening until it seemed like a fathomless gulf,
separating the world of reality from the realms of imagination beyond.
Another weary twenty miles of dusty travel, and the black void slowly
dissolved, and out of the shadows lines of broken, sterile,
ferruginous buttes and detached masses of rocks, whose soilless
surface refuses sustenance, save to a few scattered, stunted pines
and lifeless mosses, emerged to view.
The progress of the weary-footed mules or oxen was now through ravines
and around rocks; up narrow paths which the melting snows have
washed out; sometimes between beetling cliffs, often to their very
edge, where hundreds of feet below the Trail the tall trees seemed
diminished into shrubs. Then again the road led over an immense broad
terrace, for thousands of yards around, with a bright lake gleaming
in the refracted light, and brilliant Alpine plants waving their
beautiful flowers on its margin. Still the coveted summit appeared
so far off as to be beyond the range of vision, and it seemed as if,
instead of ascending, the entire mass underneath had been receding,
like the mountains of ice over which Arctic explorers attempt to reach
the pole. Now the tortuous Trail passed through snow-wreaths which
the winds had eddied into indentations; then over bright, glassy
surfaces of ice and fragments of rocks, until the pinnacle was reached.
Nearer, along the broad successive terraces of the opposite mountains,
the evergreen pine, the cedar, with its stiff, angular branches, and
the cottonwood, with its varied curves and bright colours, were
crowded into bunches or strung into zigzag lines, interspersed with
shrubs and mountain plants, among which the flaming cactus was
conspicuous. To the right and left, the bare cones of the barren
peaks rose in multitude, with their calm, awful forms shrouded in snow,
and their dark shadows reflected far into the valleys, like spectres
from a chaotic world.
In going through the Raton Pass, the Old Santa Fe Trail meandered up
a steep valley, enclosed on either side by abrupt hills covered with
pine and masses of gray rock. The road ran along the points of
varying elevations, now in the stony bed of Raton Creek, which it
crossed fifty-three times, the sparkling, flitting waters of the
bubbling stream leaping and foaming against the animals' feet as they
hauled the great wagons of the freight caravans over the tortuous
passage. The creek often rushed rapidly under large flat stones,
lost to sight for a moment, then reappearing with a fresh impetus and
dashing over its flinty, uneven bed until it mingled with the pure
waters of Le Purgatoire.
The extreme top of this famous peak was only reached after more than
an hour's arduous struggle. On the lofty plateau the caravans and
pack-trains rested their tired animals. Here, too, the lonely trapper,
when crossing the range in quest of beaver, often chose this lofty
spot on which to kindle his little fire and broil juicy steaks of the
black-tail deer, the finest venison in the world; but before he
indulged in the savoury morsels, if he was in the least superstitious
or devout, or inspired by the sublime scene around him, he lighted
his pipe, and after saluting the elevated ridge on which he sat by the
first whiff of the fragrant kinnikinick, Indian-fashion, he in turn
offered homage in the same manner to the sky above him, the earth
beneath, and to the cardinal points of the compass, and was then
prepared to eat his solitary meal in a spirit of thankfulness.
All around you snow-clad mountains lift their serrated crowns above
the horizon, dim, white, and indistinct, like icebergs seen at sea
by moonlight; others, nearer, more rugged, naked of verdure, and
irregular in contour, seem to lose their lofty summits in the intense
blue of the sky.
Fisher's Peak, which is in full view from the train, was named from
the following circumstance: Captain Fisher was a German artillery
officer commanding a battery in General Kearney's Army of the West in
the conquest of New Mexico and was encamped at the base of the peak
to which he involuntarily gave his name. He was intently gazing at
the lofty summit wrapped in the early mist, and not being familiar
with the illusory atmospheric effects of the region, he thought that
to go there would be merely a pleasant promenade. So, leaving word
that he would return to breakfast, he struck out at a brisk walk for
the crest. That whole day, the following night, and the succeeding
day, dragged their weary hours on, but no tidings of the commanding
officer were received at the battery, and ill rumours were current
of his death by Indians or bears, when, just as his mess were about
to take their seats at the table for the evening meal, their captain
put in an appearance, a very tired but a wiser man. He started to go
to the peak, and he went there!
Pike's Peak, far away to the north, intensely white and silvery in the
clear sky, hangs like a great dome high in the region of the clouds,
a marked object, worthy to commemorate the indefatigable efforts of
the early voyageur whose name it bears.
In this wonderful locality, both Pike's Peak and the snowy range over
two hundred miles from our point of observation really seem to the
uninitiated as if a brisk walk of an hour or two would enable one to
reach them, so deceptive is the atmosphere of these elevated regions.
About two miles from the crest of the range, yet over seven thousand
feet above the sea-level, in a pretty little depression about as
large as a medium-sized corn-field in the Eastern States, Uncle
Dick Wooton lived, and here, too, was his toll-gate. The veteran
mountaineer erected a substantial house of adobe, after the style
of one of the old-time Southern plantation residences, a memory,
perhaps, of his youth, when he raised tobacco in his father's fields
in Kentucky.[76]
The sun, however, does not always shine resplendently; there are
times when the most terrific storms of wind, hail, and rain change
the entire aspect of the scene. Fortunately, these violent bursts
never last long; they vanish as rapidly as they come, leaving in
their wake the most phenomenally beautiful rainbows, whose trailing
splendours which they owe to the dry and rare air of the region, and
its high refractory power, are gorgeous in the extreme.
Half a mile away from the bridge spanning the Fork, under the grateful
shade of the largest trees, about twenty skin lodges were irregularly
grouped; on the brown sod of the sun-cured grass a herd of a hundred
ponies were lazily feeding, while a troop of dusky little children
were chasing the yellow butterflies from the dried and withered
sunflower stalks which once so conspicuously marked the well-worn
highway to the mountains. These Indians, the remnant of a tribe
powerful in the years of savage sovereignty, were on their way,
in charge of their agent, to their new homes, on the reservation
just allotted to them by the government, a hundred miles south of
the Arkansas.
It was the beginning of the end; on the 9th of February, 1880, the
first train over the Atchison, Topeka, and Santa Fe Railroad arrived
at Santa Fe and the Old Trail as a route of commerce was closed
forever. The once great highway is now only a picture in the memory
of the few who have travelled its weary course, following the windings
of the silent Arkansas, on to the portals that guard the rugged
pathway leading to the shores of the blue Pacific.
FOOTNOTES.
[1] The whole country watered by the Mississippi and Missouri was
called Florida at that time.
[3] Otoes.
[4] Iowas.
[12] He was travelling parallel to the Old Santa Fe Trail all the time,
but did not know it until he was overtaken by a band of Kaw Indians.
[16] The line between the United States and Mexico (or New Spain,
as it was called) was defined by a treaty negotiated in 1819,
between the Chevalier de Onis, then Spanish minister at Washington,
and John Quincy Adams, Secretary of State. According to its
provisions, the boundary between Mexico and Louisiana, which had been
added to the Union, commenced with the river Sabine at its entrance
into the Gulf of Mexico, at about the twenty-ninth degree of north
latitude and the ninety-fourth degree of longitude, west from
Greenwich, and followed it as far as its junction with the Red River
of Natchitoches, which then served to mark the frontier up to the
one hundredth degree of west longitude, where the line ran directly
north to the Arkansas, which it followed to its source at the
forty-second degree of north latitude, whence another straight line
was drawn up the same parallel to the Pacific coast.
[17] This tribe kept up its reputation under the dreaded Satanta,
until 1868--a period of forty years--when it was whipped into
submission by the gallant Custer. Satanta was its war chief,
one of the most cruel savages the great plains ever produced.
He died a few years ago in the state prison of Texas.
[18] McNess Creek is on the old Cimarron Trail to Santa Fe, a little
east of a line drawn south from Bent's Fort.
[19] Mr. Bryant, of Kansas, who died a few years ago, was one of
the pioneers in the trade with Santa Fe. Previous to his decease
he wrote for a Kansas newspaper a narrative of his first trip across
the great plains; an interesting monograph of hardship and suffering.
For the use of this document I am indebted to Hon. Sol. Miller,
the editor of the journal in which it originally appeared. I have
also used very extensively the notes of Mr. William Y. Hitt, one of
the Bryant party, whose son kindly placed them at my disposal, and
copied liberally from the official report of Major Bennett Riley--
afterward the celebrated general of Mexican War fame, and for whom
the Cavalry Depot in Kansas is named; as also from the journal of
Captain Philip St. George Cooke, who accompanied Major Riley on
his expedition.
[22] About three miles east of the town of Great Bend, Barton County,
Kansas.
[23] The Old Santa Fe Trail crosses the creek some miles north of
Hutchinson, and coincides with the track again at the mouth of
Walnut Creek, three miles east of Great Bend.
[25] General Emory of the Union army during the Civil War. He made
an official report of the country through which the Army of the West
passed, accompanied by maps, and his _Reconnoissance in New Mexico
and California_, published by the government in 1848, is the first
authentic record of the region, considered topographically and
geologically.
[31] Carson, Wooton, and all other expert mountaineers, when following
a trail, could always tell just what time had elapsed since it was
made. This may seem strange to the uninitiated, but it was part
of their necessary education. They could tell what kind of a track
it was, which way the person or animal had walked, and even the tribe
to which the savage belonged, either by the shape of the moccasin
or the arrows which were occasionally dropped.
[34] Lone Wolf was really the head chief of the Kiowas.
[43] La Jeunesse was one of the bravest of the old French Canadian
trappers. He was a warm friend of Kit Carson and was killed by the
Indians in the following manner. They were camping one night in the
mountains; Kit, La Jeunesse, and others had wrapped themselves up
in their blankets near the fire, and were sleeping soundly; Fremont
sat up until after midnight reading letters he had received from
the United States, after finishing which, he, too, turned in and
fell asleep. Everything was quiet for a while, when Kit was awakened
by a noise that sounded like the stroke of an axe. Rising cautiously,
he discovered Indians in the camp; he gave the alarm at once,
but two of his companions were dead. One of them was La Jeunesse,
and the noise he had heard was the tomahawk as it buried itself
in the brave fellow's head.
[44] This black is made from a species of plumbago found on the hills
of the region.
[45] The Pawnees and Cheyennes were hereditary enemies, and they
frequently met in sanguinary conflict.
[48] For some reason the Senate refused to confirm the appointment,
and he had consequently no connection with the regular army.
[49] Point of Rocks is six hundred and forty seven miles from
Independence, and was always a favourite place of resort for the
Indians of the great plains; consequently it was one of the most
dangerous camping-spots for the freight caravans on the Trail.
It comprises a series of continuous hills, which project far out on
the prairie in bold relief. They end abruptly in a mass of rocks,
out of which gushes a cold, refreshing spring, which is, of course,
the main attraction of the place. The Trail winds about near this
point, and many encounters with the various tribes have occurred there.
[51] General Gatlin was a North Carolinian, and seceded with his
State at the breaking out of the Rebellion, but refused to leave
his native heath to fight, so indelibly was he impressed with the
theory of State rights. He was willing to defend the soil of
North Carolina, but declined to step across its boundary to repel
invasion in other States.
[53] Kit Carson, ten years before, when on his first journey, met
with the same adventure while on post at Pawnee Rock.
[54] The fusee was a fire-lock musket with an immense bore, from
which either slugs or balls could be shot, although not with any
great degree of accuracy.
[55] The Indians always knew when the caravans were to pass certain
points on the Trail, by their runners or spies probably.
[57] In their own fights with their enemies one or two of the
defeated party are always spared, and sent back to their tribe to
carry the news of the slaughter.
[58] The story of the way in which this name became corrupted into
"Picketwire," by which it is generally known in New Mexico, is this:
When Spain owned all Mexico and Florida, as the vast region of the
Mississippi valley was called, long before the United States had
an existence as a separate government, the commanding officer at
Santa Fe received an order to open communication with the country
of Florida. For this purpose an infantry regiment was selected.
It left Santa Fe rather late in the season, and wintered at a point
on the Old Trail now known as Trinidad. In the spring, the colonel,
leaving all camp-followers behind him, both men and women, marched
down the stream, which flows for many miles through a magnificent
canyon. Not one of the regiment returned or was ever heard of.
When all hope had departed from the wives, children, and friends
left behind at Trinidad, information was sent to Santa Fe, and a wail
went up through the land. The priests and people then called this
stream "El Rio de las Animas Perditas" ("The river of lost souls").
Years after, when the Spanish power was weakened, and French trappers
came into the country under the auspices of the great fur companies,
they adopted a more concise name; they called the river "Le Purgatoire."
Then came the Great American Bull-Whacker. Utterly unable to twist
his tongue into any such Frenchified expression, he called the stream
with its sad story "Picketwire," and by that name it is known to all
frontiersmen, trappers, and the settlers along its banks.
[62] The crossing of the Old Santa Fe Trail at Pawnee Fork is now
within the corporate limits of the pretty little town of Larned,
the county-seat of Pawnee County. The tourist from his car-window
may look right down upon one of the worst places for Indians that
there was in those days of the commerce of the prairies, as the road
crosses the stream at the exact spot where the Trail crossed it.
[64] Indians will risk the lives of a dozen of their best warriors
to prevent the body of any one of their number from falling into
the white man's possession. The reason for this is the belief,
which prevails among all tribes, that if a warrior loses his scalp
he forfeits his hope of ever reaching the happy hunting-ground.
[65] It was in this fight that the infamous Charles Bent received
his death-wound.
[66] The Atchison, Topeka, and Santa Fe Railroad track runs very
close to the mound, and there is a station named for the great mesa.
[68] The place where they turned is about a hundred yards east of
the Court House Square, in the present town of Great Bend; it may
be seen from the cars.
[74] Raton is the name given by the early Spaniards to this range,
meaning both mouse and squirrel. It had its origin either in the
fact that one of its several peaks bore a fanciful resemblance to
a squirrel, or because of the immense numbers of that little rodent
always to be found in its pine forests.
[76] The house was destroyed by fire two or three years ago.
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